Hymns of Struggle
by Pipes Flow Forever and Ever
Summary: What's there to live for after you die? You struggle to exist- to make it all the way to your Lord- and all that greets you is Hell wrapped through your own flesh. Purgatory must be real after all. I pray and I pray and finally, something comes. If only I knew what to do with it. -An empathetic attempt to comprehend and console Sammy Lawrence (OC and Sammy relationship/interaction)
1. A Death Wish

**Author's Note:** This fanfic contains graphic depictions of violence and its aftermath as well as depictions of hallucinations and re-experiencing trauma. I do want to assure, however, that this fic attempts to realistically bring together two beings with deep emotional troubles in a way that does not romanticize abuse, but still acknowledges wrongdoings and the trauma of others' actions. This fic is an unnamed AU in which Henry experiences chapter 1-3 canon but the studio is left as is or nearly as is for however long it's been until the OC appears.

I mostly write this for both your enjoyment and mine, but reviews still brighten my day if you have any thoughts or comments.

 **Editing Notes as of 12/15/17:** Chapter 8 has been heavily edited as of 12/15/17. For those that have read the chapter before this date, I have listed exactly what changed. The list can be found at the end of Chapter 8.

 **Editing Notes as of 1/28/18:** There has been a significant detail change to Chapter 1 as well as other chapters that mention the detail. I will state it explicitly at the end of Chapter 1 for those who have read this before. Another minor but notable change has been added to Chapter 8, again described at the end of that particular chapter.)

 **Art notes:** Some lovely friends have made me _spectacular_ fan art! Please check them out! Be careful- They're spoilers for up to chapter 14!

Aceofintuition: post/171466863588/and-as-she-gazed-upon-the-very-face-that

Aceofintuition: post/170701725213/fanart-for-hat-engineers-lovely-fic-hymns-of

Metallicartist: post/172379231107/ever-feel-like-you-wana-read-a-good-fic-dont

 _COVER ART BY METALLICARTIST:_ post/172841971898/metallicartist-pipesflowforeverandever-last

* * *

 **1- A Death Wish**

" _For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him shall never perish, but have everlasting life." -_ John 3:16

* * *

Her skin clammed up as she reached for the dim, glistening light at the end of the dark hallway, the only doorknob that seemed to work in this godforsaken place. She trembled with anxiety and excitement, not finding what she was looking for but ready as hell to get out since she knew that now. The last thought she had was "the door can't be locked, I was just-"

And then she fell.

The floorboards cracked like thunder and splintered and cut all over her legs as they gave way, leading lead the way down to whatever waited below. Another loud crack followed, as she had landed on her abdomen. And almost immediately after, a primal, guttural scream. So much noise, but it seemed to echo into nothing, to no one.

A spotlight from the broken roof shined over the writhing figure. The world it touched was a sickly yellow, aged paper, but it didn't stray far from her. She started to lift herself from her ribs to her side, spasming as if she was moving her stomach out of her mouth. Her hand reached out and as it attempted to lift her upright, the other was unwilling to stop from holding herself. She had to leave. She knew no one was here to help, close enough to hear her call. She would soon wish for that to be the truth.

Another scream rang out and she lost her breath as something gripped her ankle and began to drag her, a thud sounding out as she fell back on her broken ribs. Her fingers scratched into the wood with their nails. She didn't know what was happening, but she needed it to stop; she was already fighting the siren call of unconsciousness. Being lead out of the light, her hand blindly hit a table leg and she held on for dear life. It dragged with her a little…and then hesitation. That cold, inhuman touch left finally her leg. She breathed in relief, but didn't let go, in case the machinery started up again. It must be some sort of abandoned production line, since there were all those strange, giant pipes above.

Just as she started to heave herself away from whatever was taking her, she saw something come for her hand and violently begin to pry her fingers off the table leg. It felt like- oh God, there's no way.

Other fingers.

Something came out of her mouth- she couldn't tell what- and she slammed the thing with her fist as hard as she could. It...squished in her touch, but did not waver and eventually was victorious. Feeling her palm in its' grasp, she was lifted up by the wrist and came face to face with what had to be another nightmare.

It dropped her from this height to the floor just as suddenly- almost as if it was a punishment for staring- and she felt her hands being forced behind her once she doubled over in pain. She felt rope graze her skin. She didn't know why, but she was fighting for her life and by God this wasn't going to be how it ends. There was a swift return of blows as she kicked it as hard as she could muster. A voice- a soft "ugh!" of surprise, and it sent her flying back.

The spotlight was over her yet again as it began to approach, looming over, its' skin glimmering like a puddle near a streetlamp in the early morning. She scrambled up to her feet and backwards, clutching a broken piece of wood that had joined her earlier plummet.

"Please!" she begged. It had never taken so much effort to heave a single word out of her throat. The figure stood still in the dark, soundless.

"Please!"

She was sobbing and shrieking by the time it started to approach once again, all her strength necessary to keep from dropping to the ground in hysteria. She knew it meant to kill her, she knew, and she knew she'd need to do anything to get out alive. Mucus filled her throat and nose as tears dripped from her cheeks, falling into her mouth and on the floor.

" _PLEASE, I DON'T WANT TO HURT YOU!"_ The plea came without any forethought and she abruptly collapsed to her knees, making noises of agony and terror that went beyond words.

It strode into the light, a tall man with an inhuman smile- even through her burning tears she could see this was a monster- a tower of ink with pants and an unmoving expression, a stiff mask of a face she surely never wanted to see again.

Then it stood there, tilting its head. She didn't consciously think, but a shiver of agony pierced her, unknowing of what this moment meant, what this moment would lead to.

There was a long pause, every second of silence cutting into her soul.

And it just knelt down and picked her up.

She thrust her arms at him, begging for her life, beating into something that leaked a reeking liquid onto her hands no matter where she hit. There seemed to be no affect, but one could have noticed she was weakening in fervor and strength with every swing. The cries started to quiet as they left further and further down into the shadows and away from her only hope.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes:** As of 1/28/18, I have decided that Sammy never hit the OC. This is counterintuitive to the purpose of this fic, played no significance, and makes decisions made later to seem to be condoning abuse. Thankfully I didn't put much thought into it in the first place, so extremely little in the actual text is different; it does, however, much better reflect the sentiment I have in writing this fic.


	2. Baptism

**2-** **Baptism**

"' _For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the LORD, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'_ " -Jeremiah 29:11

* * *

A smiling face with baring teeth, betraying the blurred line between joy and menace. It stared until it bored holes through sanity, denied any truths of the world outside the inky walls; staring back only crumbled the ground under one's feet until they leapt into the welcoming arms of hallucination. Brief comfort, but then it pinned one to the wall and made them watch as their own fear reshaped the world.

The grin would then stretch to the back of its head, new lips stitched together by the dripping of its shadowy flesh.

 _ **Drip.**_

 _ **Drip.**_

 _ **Drip.**_

Until it filled the room and their lungs with itself.

What would one do if they faced this? They would fight the embrace, of course.

But what if time after time they lost, panic encompassing their every decision, their every thought?

It kept happening, it kept happening.

They died every day, unable to resist the faces, those teasing smiles that urged them to fall back in.

But why would they always allow the fall to begin with?

If one needed to be here so many times, there must be a reason. What were they missing? What were they missing?

It had chosen to reach out to them. It chose them. He chose _them_. _He chose THEM._

…

…

" _What am I missing, my lord?"_

And that is how sheep accept the divine embrace of Bendy.


	3. Reveries

**3- Reveries**

 _"Taste and see that the LORD is good. Blessed is the one who takes refuge in him."_ \- Psalm 34:8

* * *

She felt her chest imploding. Painful screams weren't enough to drown the blood in her ears anymore. This was it. This was it.

" _Oh mom…_ I couldn't…I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry _."_

The faces of people she loved lingered over her.

A smile almost curved her cheeks at how dumb and pointless some of the memories were. Her dad buying her a McDonald's ice cream cone. Her first two friends fighting over who would get to be her _best_ friend as if she couldn't have two at once. The color of the leaves outside the window of her first college class. Not things she'd point out herself…so stupid…but it was soothing anyway. She was glad her life was like that; it pushed away the regret that lead to...

A wheeze crept from inside. A pulse of red flickered and the faces were gone.

"No…no…please, don't leave…please don't leave…I need you…I don't want to be alone…please…p-"

The tang of blood and bile filled her mouth and she felt a numbness sweep over her body like a breeze that plucks the leaves from trees one by one. The last thing she felt was a brush against her hand, one last comfort, one last assurance that someone was with her.

"Take care of me, Lord."

 _He will._

And with that, she let go.

* * *

Why?

The woman stared blankly upward, seeing nothing. It had been this way since he had laid her down in that spot.

Was this a test? Was this a gift? …Why? Why did it happen, why like this? What happened?

Many thoughts clamored his mind as he paced restlessly back and forth, side to side, but he was soon distracted by an unbearable comprehension that scratched and clawed its way forward. It'd been so long since he saw someone, someone with flesh. There was someone else, such a long time ago, but he was gone for good. He only brought trouble anyway. After all that sacrifice, that man could just leave while _he_ …!

His hands clenched forcefully when they came into view. Sometimes, he was almost not repulsed to see them. But remembering…seeing right in front of him…a _body_ …that made it crueler.

The rigid gaze of his mask still somehow betrayed a look of revile as it shifted to observe her, watching in fascination and sorrow at the violent spasms that seemed to pulse too powerfully for her figure to contain. This was like nothing he'd ever seen before.

Could he remember? What was it like to have a body? He knew he had one once, but so much eluded him now, suffocated the memory and sensation of who he was. His bones drowned in ink now and had washed away everything he used to be- No. The thought of it being anything but atonement alarmed him and was quickly pushed aside before it poisoned his faith. He was different now. He needed to be. That was his lord's grace, his mercy.

He saw a flash. He looked down and saw ink bubble from his arms and cascade over the rest of his body. Yelling, begging, pain.

Just as suddenly, something seized him from his torment. He realized he was staring at his hands again. Nothing had happened. Or maybe it had all over again. A sound rang through the air, like the croak of a frog singing amid a night as thick as velvet. It lulled him and soon he was kneeling over her, listening for more.

"I couldn't…I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…I'm so sorry." Her voice was hoarse and labored, as if speaking alone was killing her. Maybe it was. But what did she have to be sorry for? This person- this soul- had made no mistake if she came to look for her savior. Maybe she didn't know he was so close to her.

He crooked his neck to the side. Just beyond, a pentagram. The likeliness of his lord protected it- unwavering, virtuous, omnipresent.

"No…please…"

He only now noticed he was moving toward what he saw, enveloping his entire conscious until she sang again.

"Don't leave…please don't leave…"

There was a sharp, unintentional turn of his upper body in response to this request. It was…compelling. Hesitant, he allowed himself to come back over her, looming his head over hers.

"Please don't leave…I need you…"

Why did…she _need_ him?

"I don't want to be alone," the woman answered, "Please…p-"

The pleading ceased once she started choking on something that had risen from her punctured stomach. Her mouth cried without any noise, and he saw her shakes grow weaker and weaker. He could see the ink again, crawling over his body, and then leaving him back before her.

This was like nothing he'd ever seen before…but he realized he had _felt_ it before himself.

He was so unsure, so mystified of all they were experiencing together in this fleeting moment, that he didn't know if it was a decision of instinct or consciousness.

The muscles in her palm relaxed in his gingerly touch.

"Take care of me, Lord."

Her lips let free one last breath. All the tension left in her was swept into the dust that surrounded the two beings.

"He will."


	4. Passover

**4- Passover**

 _"... say to those with fearful hearts, 'Be strong, do not fear; your God will come, he will come with vengeance; with divine retribution he will come to save you.'"-_ Isaiah 35:4

* * *

The world was murky and bleak. Drips could be heard in the distance falling from the pipes; the walls were decayed, peeling, and a hallway stretched ahead. It seemed to go for eternity and yet didn't make known a single glimpse of what was ahead.

 _Sheep, sheep, sheep, it's time for sleep…_

A voice echoed from all around, soft like a lullaby.

 _Rest your head, it's time for bed…_

She existed without feeling. Where was she? She didn't remember. She didn't care.

 _In the morning, you may wake…_

Something moved.

 _Or in the morning, you'll be dead._

A shadow of a man flickered in and out of sight like a movie projection aimed into her eyes. Closer and closer, closer and closer; and just as it had shown its tattered face, it was gone.

* * *

Something spewed from her mouth. She almost choked on it all and its bitter mark on her tongue sent her gagging. Everything was blurry and her eyes stung.

"How…interesting."

A turn of the head soon revealed there was something very stiff supporting it upright. Another quick discovery was that there wouldn't be a way to rub her sore temples anytime soon. She thrashed, or at least tried, but the ropes stayed tight. He wasn't going to make that mistake twice. It had been a long time, but he remembered that much about his last encounter with an outsider.

There was a pathetic, elongated moment where he observed her quiver and shake while she was tied to that post. Like…a heap of wet papers in the wind. So much effort, but they just wouldn't break away. It made him chuckle, just for a moment, but it couldn't hide his anguish.

She eventually had to stop. She was so tired. Her skull banged back against the wood behind it one last time, scrunched-up eyes prickling from crying so much for so long. There was hardly room for her lungs. The fuzzy light in her peripheral view grew brighter and she heard a door creak. A light shuffle, taking all the time it wanted to haunt her. Louder, louder, louder…here. Right by her side. She snapped her eyes shut. No more, please no more.

"Well."

She bit her lip so hard to keep from screaming that she could taste blood.

"You're very…fortunate. I suppose you already know that." Absolutely not.

"It seems like you may…" She noticed the hatred in his voice, the venom. "…Have his favor."

She sniveled. She felt this man- this thing- staring at her, watching her every move. It was excruciating, even more so than-

Her stomach?

Her eyes shot open and saw her clothes were covered with something sable and sticky. It was all over her skin. She felt it in her hair. She saw it in her wounds. A throbbing ache came from her gut, but she no longer felt the stab there before nor the hot rush that filled her body and numbed it.

She was alive. She was ALIVE. The drop in her stomach at this thought was almost enough to make up for its loss of pain. She shouldn't be alive. She couldn't understand a damn thing since she had closed the first door behind her, but she could understand that.

"So much for sacrifice."

Still there was refusal to meet his gaze, even as he hissed in her ear. It emanated disgust, loathing. Her heart beat so hard that its pulse twanged her wrists, flooded her ears. She wasn't sure what she did to slight this hellish creature, and it terrified her.

* * *

After all that, nothing.

He had gone through all that trouble to bring the intruder to Bendy. He found her. He fought her. He carried her to his meticulously fashioned room of sacrament, tied her up and lit the candles. He saw the visions- his _own_ skin again- as he stayed by her side while she took her dying breaths, waiting for his master to retrieve the offering. To set him free. And eventually, he saw this would be her own saving grace as well. The woman was already a pitiful sight when she arrived. Her bones broken, her breathing tortured. He glimpsed her even before then and saw she was still unfitting to survive among the others. And the only thing you can do once you enter the studio is to try to survive.

Even so, she was about to give- ready to give- his lord the most exalted, selfless sacrifice conceivable. He had so much hope in the brief moment they anticipated his marvelous presence together.

And then he decided to let her live on the way she was.

It was infuriating.

He couldn't blame his lord. He couldn't. He- he worked in ways that could never be fully understood. _BUT!_

There was a whimper from her direction as a growl rumbled his throat ever so slightly.

But Bendy let this woman live in his own domain with her body as is- a _slight_ to his grace, his power over everyone who dwelled this place, the _ONLY_ _PRICE_ for his mercy- while his most faithful servant was treated like a wretch.

He felt his teeth grit and his lips curl, so he quickly recomposed. He knew his lord was still watching.

Still…it was a show of some kind from his lord Bendy nonetheless, his great omnipotence over the ever-thinning line between life and death in these halls. The shepherd had to admit that he didn't know- never had seen- anyone live again without first drowning in the puddles.

She spat up ink again.

He supposed he could be wrong after all.

But her state…this was not only unusual; it was unprecedented, and it set his mind racing. His entire, blighted existence was to apprehend his master and his ways. Just as he felt he had climbed high enough to grasp it, he reached too far and lost grip. The plummet threw his heart into his throat.

The questions from before his lord's summoning floated back with more and more urgency. Was this a punishment for the audacity to think he could finally comprehend his lord? Was this a blessing he didn't yet see, as unbearable as she made him feel? Did her broken state not please him, like offering a sick calf at the alter? Was it abhorrence of the shepherd, or was it _her_ fault? Was he to kill her himself? But then why would Bendy not only leave her but also _restore_ her, something that he had never deemed anyone- even his prophet- to be deserving of? If she wasn't a sacrifice…what was she for?

And suddenly- "I'm sorry."

It took him off guard. It was a feeble voice, shaken with the events that had taken place. Raspy, despondent, and scared. She didn't know what she was apologizing for, but he didn't know that.

His gaze lingered down upon her again. She was finally facing him, wide-eyed and teary, expecting something- anything. Please, just anything!

There was nothing that he could say with certainty to reply to that with, and it terrified him.


	5. The Scientist

**5- The Scientist**

" _For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."_ – 1 Corinthians 13:12

* * *

"I don't- I-…I don't think I understand."

The two of them hadn't left the room of sacrament for what must have been hours. Her spine ached, and she could feel her wrists starting to rub raw against the rope. It was only now she decided- no, she had decided long ago. It was only now that she had the gall to speak since her last, futile attempt. She had apologized and then, nothing. They only watched…watched everything she did. Everything. Either the delirium of fear or an eventual acceptance of the nonsensical had her questioning if the cartoon face was hiding eyes or if _it_ was seeing all along. The hosting body shifted occasionally, but she was always the focal point; it had never wavered this whole time. There was an established tempo where they lifted their hands or arms in front of them with a faint murmur; the gap between them seemed to place her in a frame.

The sight of this being, the unavoidable truth they represented, was cognitively impossible.

It overwhelmed her mind and body, at first commanding her to cry- still did off and on- but eventually she dwelled into a sense of final bravery, that she was going to die here anyway. May as well die without so many questions.

Vulnerability. She had never felt so defenseless, out of control by stating a fact. She did not understand, and could not without the help of the very thing that plagued her and cleanly skinned the comfort she had in her reality. Calling upon the face of insanity was her only option.

After that, a heavy, unnatural silence swarmed the air, muting her will to try again.

"What do you mean?"

So sudden that it knocked her voice back to life with a gasp. It was a subdued, icy sound they made. Gentle by nature and yet with no intent of kindness nor comfort, even for someone dwelling her misery. As quiet as things were, its whisper sliced to the soul.

"I- I mean…." What did she mean? "I…"

They tilted their neck. The calm amid this flurry of horror had allowed opportunity to ponder her situation for the first time since the floorboards fell beneath her. The thing…they were covered in something, the same something that seemed to ooze over her clothes and make rivers in the cracks of the decaying wood underneath her feet. They shined like a lake under an unclouded moon even though the quivering candlelight was so dim. The teeth of their mask were jaggedly punched out, but what was behind it was unrecognizable.

They leaned in with either agitation or curiosity at her pauses. Probably both. The candle most between she and them suddenly flickered more brightly and curved away from this being, but just as quickly dimmed once more. Then again- bloomed, bent halfway, and withered back to almost nothing. A yellow blush was softly laid upon the hand that clasped on their knee for support, which was lowering to her level. Knuckles twitched in effort. A small shake of the cloth underneath- the ring finger tapping with anxiety, over and over. Tension trailed their arm up to their shoulders, which lifted and dropped delicately, hardly brushing an aura of dust that sprinkled the air. A highlight struck through the mask's crude window and exposed a parting of lips.

Bloom. Bend. Wither.

Bloom. Bend. Wither.

She…Oh god.

They were _alive._

Her own life was struck like a match, enveloped with vigor. The minute rhythms before her blared over their shared memories. Her instincts ignored who this someone was. They're a person. _A person_.

Whatever she intended to ask was gone forever. Through all the obscurity that swallowed them, the most human question burned into her heart and skimmed over her tongue before she could censor herself.

"Do you have a name?"


	6. The Siren

**6- The Siren**

" _So we, being many, are one body in Christ, and every one members one of another."_ \- Romans 12:5

* * *

Who was he?

He knew who he was today. The shepherd, the prophet. The one who recognized that salvation was within the grasp of any of the lost sheep who wished for it. He knew that when the ink flooded beyond the stairwells and into everyone's veins, they had become of the same blood as their lord. His duty was to thank Bendy for this mercy, for saving him from the sweltering nothingness and for providing hope…hope that he could be who he was before.

But who did he used to be?

Do you have a name?

His demeanor of provocation fragmented into uncertainty. He felt his brow rise and his mouth gape.

…He could not remember his name.

In his soul he tightly held onto grains that said he had one; he had a name sometime before all this. The rest eluded him, an entire beach of memory pulled into an ocean by the tide of ink one spec of sand at a time. What he held in his hands was all he could find, and they were so few. A terror sank through him. He never noticed before how little he had left of the person he needed to keep.

Corporality was not the only piece of himself that dissolved in the black brine of souls.

The ocean. He detested the remnants that still soaked his mind. That was where his own soul laid to rest every time his useless form fell apart, until Bendy allowed him to dwell his lord's path again. There were endless wails and murmurs of a thousand-fold swimming through emptiness. "Like fish in a bowl." He heard them, he listened…he heeded. After all, they were no worse than he, sinner of sinners. He wanted them to understand the salvation Bendy had put before each of them.

It had been a very long time since he was in the puddles last; he recalled with chills when his lord punished him. And yet, even after Bendy rejected the sheep offered to him…his prophet called upon him to provide the strength to reform again so he may do his will. Amid the curses and anguish of the ungrateful, he would sing to their savior and encourage his brethren to do the same.

He will set us free!

A simple melody of compassion, courage, and clarity. It offered everything the sufferers craved to cleanse their wounds of wickedness. He hoped…he trusted that if all who needed Bendy's grace reached for him, they would finally be saved. So simple a task. So miraculous in return.

And yet no one would be of the choir. Everyone was enveloped in their own greedy woe.

A lonely existence that maddened every drop of humanity left in the gutters of his heart.

He had never thought about his solitude. After all, his heart now overflowed like a chalice of a bridegroom before they wed. His lord kept blessing with his love even as the wine cascaded over the rim and gushed over his hands and onto the floor, until he filled the room with himself.

…And yet…and yet…

Grief and confusion whirled over him, a spinning transparency emerging from the lighthouse on his shore that searched for answers where there were none.

* * *

She noticed the struggle- her captor shuddering and their fear proving contagious, radiating between them. Her expression shifted to say something but was withheld, unsure if the creature would be interrupted; it seemed they were asking themselves her question. It felt best not to interfere but there was anxiety in waiting for regret to emerge.

There wasn't a conscious awareness of it, but a name to her meant more than what to call them- it meant there could be something within them to grasp. A desperate hope that seethed against everything she had faith in. She needed them. Fuck, she needed them, and they're the one she wanted to be away from the most.

Their reticence had brought back the memories of them together under the spotlight.

They could set her free; if not of the hell around them but then of the one inside of her. The sight of them still sent adrenaline through her nerves and she couldn't forget what happened to her- but it would bring relief, somehow less dread as their shadow rested over her from above. Maybe a belief there would be no more harm to her- valid or not, still a welcome belief. Even if she couldn't forgive.

All she wanted was to stop being scared, to allow her heart to ease just for a moment, if not for good then at least until she died here.

Maybe there was a reason she saw the monster and the physical pain had ceased. She felt so certain she was dying, even so. Maybe they could explain it to her. She didn't even think of escape yet; she didn't even think of why she came, what she searched for so urgently. So inconsiderately in the face of her demise, she just wanted to know. She hoped. She hoped. Maybe.

Any alternatives would result in her spiritual end.

* * *

These revelations of their lives had only been conceived within a few seconds.

Never had this happened. Never had anyone thought of him. Never had he wanted to know about himself like that before. Never had he tried to know, either. Even refracted by the tinted lenses of odium- revealing his corruption to be so absolute that she doubted he could be worthy of a name…-

She was the first to ask him who he used to be.

But soon, matters of mortality overcame history. His heart raced as he comprehended…he was not among the puddles. His lord rejected his offering and hadn't rightfully incurred his wrath as he had done before. He was still here, left with the sheep.

He loosened the ropes behind her back.

"It…does not matter now. And it won't until the day he sets us free."

Maybe his calls weren't in vain after all.


	7. Through the Red Sea

**7- Through the Red Sea**

" _The people remained at a distance, while Moses approached the thick darkness where God was."_ \- Exodus 20:21

* * *

"I…I…"

Her wrists came forward in front of her, similar in the manner this person had obsessed with their arms the past few hours.

Free.

…Free?

The word addressed two perplexities at once. The first being…was she really free?! Wait, wait- what even just happened? She entered the studio only for it to come to life before her very eyes. It swallowed her, and soon she was found by…them. They battled to take her and succeeded, followed only by the memory of a flickering man opening the curtain to a play of vomit and relief. After all that, was she just…released from this?

The second seemed to disagree:

 _Until the day he sets us free._

"Who?" she asked.

The watery man appeared reluctant to answer.

"All in due time." Smooth and airy, more for his own thoughts than her own, a drawn-out mumble lost and resigned to forces beyond himself. It was in sharp contrast to a louder, demanding inquiry that echoed the room.

"Can you stand?"

With great reluctance, she moved her wary gape from him in order to center herself. A throaty groan signaled her start; unsteady arms tossed to the ground to lift her body from the floor. Most would have responded to the visual cues by offering aid, but not he. Eventually she stood before him, knees bent and ready to collapse, an arm leaning fully against the beam to which she has been tied. It appears restoring life does not mean to restore physical capacities, he noted.

"Come with me."

Without even a gesture or a look, he trudged towards the gaping hallway that had held the shadow man of her dying nightmare. Confoundment widened every opening of her face. Panic. Realization her turmoil wasn't over.

"I...! I need to leave! I need to-"

"If you don't come with me-" He interrupted her excuses as a schoolmaster scolds a child preparing to cup a brown recluse in their hands. "-you won't be permitted to exist as you are for another minute."

After that, the chamber was audience only to the dripping of pipes. She never noticed the pentagram that had encompassed her for the entirety of their stay.

* * *

Fatigue in every step, she followed him into the void, fingers and palms clinging to the wall for support. Keeping up with him, even as slow as he was, was an ordeal. There was doubt if the pulse she felt against her fingertips was just her own. But so far, this was the same as the first room of the studio, only filtered through extreme shadow-

A stench bit at her nose and she saw something move. Just up ahead, ink gushed from the pipes overhead and swamped the floor. A gigantic statue with the same face as the rest of the studio proudly oversaw the incubus in front of them as the mass grew and bubbled like a cancer eating the corridor inside out. The shepherd was unphased and walked closer and closer, about to enter this convulsing, living shade. The soft thump in her fingers became faster.

She felt herself begin to hyperventilate.

* * *

He looked over his shoulder once he noticed the harmony of footsteps was broken. The pivot came in time to see her dusky figure slide down the wall, literally letting herself go.

"I can't! I can't…!"

Hair clung to her sweaty skin and caught in the saliva of her mouth.

"Please don't make me go there…I don't…I…" Pleas to avoid the inevitable.

He was puzzled…and unbearably annoyed. "Why?"

She gaped for air like she was drowning, giving no comprehensible reply. His cycling between obligation and acrimony for her was proving to be so aggravatingly short. He sighed beneath the refuge of his mask. His lord must have blessed his kind with vigor beyond that of the untouched that roamed into this perdition by choice. So weak, so pathetic, even after Bendy bestowed upon her his own power and life.

Impatience overcame his virtues for struggle. Faint hiccups and sobs rang in his ears as she hung over his back, placed neither gently nor with intent to be thrown, torso once again aching from the pressure.

He was unaware it was less a fault in her strength of body than it was one of her mind as they waded into the ink. Her whispers turned to screams.

* * *

It took a long time for the sight of the throbbing flow of ink to leave her; eventually it was settled into a still pool that only passed waves where he had just stepped, the immediate fear of where they were sliding into a quiet trepidation of what was ahead. And yet, her breathing was still profoundly troubled.

She had been kidnapped when they found her before. _Kidnapped._ It was something that seemed out of the realm of possibility, as alien as the moving cardboard cutouts from the halls above. And now that same stranger was carrying her, a crow clasping an insect in its claws but not yet pecking, resigned to take flight with the worm in its grasp. They had not said to where or why, and she couldn't muster the might in her tongue to ask. Doubtlessly, the volatility of it all was her biggest enemy, her greatest distress.

She…did not trust the person to be rational. Considering they only stared at her in silence for hours up until these past moments, a sound mind seemed absent- or at least subjugated by this situation. Their actions may not be as meticulously intentional as surmised before, but driven by anxiety and horror…like her. That was her hunch. She hoped it to be the truth; otherwise, the resulting sureness left to them would leave her even more unsure of her own fate.

Her pupils lowered and saw the glossy, oily flesh they had. They seemed to be a blobby shell of someone- once human or eternally not- that wanted to leave as much as she. Leaving _what_ was cast into the unknown.

She feared what made them this way and the likelihood that it surrounded her now.

Descending further into the enigma, she asked herself…what was he? -…Oh.

The question itself revealed the vagueness that clouded her judgements. Gender had never emerged in her reflections until now. The constant threat of death- conceivably worse- probably had a hand in that. And well, she conceded that gender was pretty pointless anyway. Wait no- it's very important! But well, just to the individual. But it also means a lot socially, even if it shouldn't necessarily…-

He noticed her breathing steady; her heart was beating so forcefully through him that its waning was obvious. It felt worthy of comment, and yet he had none. Her presence was awkward enough to suffocate any. Resuscitation, however, was unfortunately not avoidable.

"Hey…"

This was softer, perhaps even more serene than her voiced proved capable of before. Assisted by the blood flowing to her brain held upside down, she was now sedated by her own inquisitiveness, her own divulgence of thought and whimsy. It was remarkable, and likely a result of her own nervous system straining to keep her alive by avoiding yet another costly spike of adrenaline and panic where it would be utterly useless. Her own readiness to be swept into conversations with herself had always been a rival of anesthesia, but who had known it was enough to confidently probe the face of nightmares? The questions and asides came slow but without careful planning, merely wind from her lips. It was favorable that her brain made it too exhausting to care, as the mere idea this would have made her sober self fall over in flabbergast.

"Who are you? I mean…who should I think of you as?"

It probably made more sense in her head than it did to him as a question.

He began but never finished. "I am…"and they hung in the air like clothing to dry. Having never been _asked_ to explain before rather than simply doing so opportunistically left him reasonably hesitant, and so he found he preferred to do so on his own volition. That was not his current intention. However, the still wet steps of his pantlegs dragging ink from the loch onto the upcoming bare, hardwood panels weren't satisfying enough to engage the silence.

"It's…okay if you don't have a name."

This tone- the utter, idiotic guilelessness-!

It stabbed through him like broken glass and left him arrested mid-step. He shortly recomposed and jerked his knees back in their cadence, unsure if the forcefulness in his next declarations were to prove certainty to her or himself.

"I am his prophet. I am he who is- " Too forceful, and he audibly choked on his words, just for a second. "-blessed to sing the hymns to our lord."

The concept of gender was indeed very stimulating, but this was much too ominous for her to pay attention to it any longer. The gratification normally attained by answering her own questions was completely engulfed by the dread freshly placed upon her shoulders.

"I…I think there's a lot we need to talk about," she stuttered wearily, naively.

"I suppose there must be," he curtly answered the sheep as he continued to carry them both gracelessly, cumbersomely away. Their figures obscured and fuzzed into one shortly before evaporating into the gloom ahead.


	8. Magi

**Notice:** Please see the bottom for notes on major changes to this chapter as of 12/15/17 and 1/28/18.

 **8** **-** **Magi**

" _Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you."_ – Matthew 7:7

* * *

 _Slither._

He saw several meters ahead at the end of the room a true Peter Pan shadow, a black stain in the corner of his sight that retreated the moment he tried to place it. Normally he wouldn't think much of it- they were merely the vermin of the pipes- but a weight over his spine had relayed a sharp warning.

She'd have to learn to deal with the searchers sometime- or rather, he would have to deal with the aftermath of their introduction- but he didn't have the tolerance for that today. Maybe never. His exasperation grew every time she reacted to more of his reality…her new home. He wondered if she had accepted that yet or if this too would be his responsibility. He tried and failed not to resent the position Bendy chose for him, a swish of guilt and displeasure that couldn't mix but kept striving to.

That resignation, however, created a problem. Past where the searcher roamed was the only path to his retreat.

The only _physical_ path.

At the sharp bend also awaited the visage of his savior, intricate lines drawn behind it like rays of divine light. Ah, he had forgotten about that pentagram. Dragging himself step by step until his round, misshapen feet rested before the portal, he bowed as best he could and still balance without dropping her or himself to the floor. Admittedly he was unsure if Bendy truly used his likeliness to supervise his realm, but the prophet believed the gesture itself to be proper respect regardless. Nothing could be too frivolous if it was done in worship. He was then free to carefully pick it up with barely one hand to spare, leaving the star vacant.

Briefly, he wondered what would happen to her. Things he carried in always seemed to emerge alongside- no damage, no harm, not even a scrape. But all of them had been washed in the first tide of ink. She was not. Malice consumed him.

"Ah well."

She must have been hallucinating because she could swear she saw his legs press through a solid wall.

* * *

It was a chamber heavily swamped in shadow, her own flattened against the wall and dancing with candlelight.

It was beautiful. It was horrid.

She must have lost focus from the exhaustion, much to her dismay. They were walking and now she was here. An expletive slit her throat. She'll be dead in no time if this is how she her body reacts to this kind of stress.

There would surely be more to come, ready to take her for good.

Such certainties had to be shoved into the dark, at least for now. Not now, not now. Life outside her own pinched the fuse before it burned to self-destruction.

She didn't know when he'd be back. When did she hear the steps? Her most recent memory was a shuffle and a dizzy panorama up to the ceiling as she laid on the floor. The rotting face of a demon diminished to a new moon of oil as he turned his head away to leave.

This may be the only opportunity to be alone for the rest of her life. Wisdom froze her in place and sped time; she knew this was precious…but not how.

Subconsciously, the first logical step was to observe. With her senses lagging to catch up with her intellect, the painting before her was abstract long before it sharpened into realism.

She was in an enclosed room. She lifted her head to the candle, up on a cabinet- a weird table with short walls attached to the top. A sketching table? There was a name for it, definitely. Now the candle, it was ribbed; it curved in and out in a strange but familiar fashion. This angle was unhelpful. Once sitting up, there was-

Her lower eyelids were forced upward by grimacing cheeks. She smelled her hoodie before she saw it, crusty with bodily fluids and drying ink. Regretfully, it was the only proper layer between her and the musty air. "I hope he comes back with clean clothes," she pondered spitefully. It was less a retort of her captor and more of an attempt to forget the circumstances under which the cloth was soiled. Then she remembered there's likely another shirt to wear.

…in her car, outside.

Her fist pounded at her thigh in frustration; she was upset but then finally distinguished it was pointless to ponder the fantasy of clean clothes any longer, grunting a sigh. She only brought in-... another revelation, already.

A big one. A potential savior.

A slap hit her jean pocket, met with a solid thump. Her hands scratched so fast to grip her smartphone in her bare palm that she pushed it onto floor. Her breath was heavy with excitement rather than fear for the first time.

A red light tinged the room and painted her face, spelling "Verizon." She had been opportunistically agitated at the lengthy boot-up before, but today her heart ached as she held air in her throat.

The loudest exhalation to leave her yet.

 _6%,_ it read.

…What now? With such few, dear minutes left to her, what was she to do?

Her thumbs gripped the screen not in use but in unbelief.

…

She had to know.

 _5%._

Her password was inputted, and she urgently tapped the Facebook icon.

 _Search: Gabriel Vahl_

 _4%._

The first suggestion was a page, not a person. "Come Home, Gabby!" That was it; she knew it well. A quick scan seemed to show no change in itself- same pictures of a young boy with scruffy brown hair and shiny black eyes. This description was listed on the "MISSING" poster that served as the page's cover photo.

Updates. Were there updates?

 _3%._

Her fingerprint slid back and forth up and down, fruitlessly trying to make real what wasn't there.

None.

The right arm took a mind of its own; it gripped the phone beyond necessary for utility and there was a spark that constricted down to her fingers. Before she knew it, she had whipped the phone far out of reach. A gleeful, plump face crashed through glass and then…a thick splash.

Oh no. Oh _no no NO NO NO!_

There was newfound force as she threw herself over to the window in the wall as she had her to her phone seconds before. The outrage that consumed her to do so now boiled in her stomach as she peered down, witnessing the last corner of the phone dip into a black pool that entrapped the office like the moat of a castle.

 _2%_ \- and then a spark accompanied by a broken black and white image, a nonsensical last shriek of its demise. A final _plunk_ , never to resurface.

She had cried before- often since she got here- but this time. This time was different.

* * *

It was a blank, pointless chant of footfalls.

Honestly, there was no strategy in his escape. He told himself there was but knew it was a lie, scolding himself. Yet he kept going.

It was all…so much. Too much. Overwhelming, suffocating.

He dumped her as soon as possible to try to avoid the anxiety clogging inside him. It proved to be no relief at all, and he even thought of her more as the distance between them swelled.

There wasn't a location that was safe from the monsters of the halls. He knew that well. Where he had picked for her was precarious, a feather teetering on the edge of a table, waiting for wind to blow it over the cliff. It wasn't even the safest place he had; he refused her his own sanctuary, so eager to be rid of her that he couldn't be bothered to solve his own puzzle as he had done countlessly before.

And there he left her alone, a decision made by the urges of his apprehensions.

Passions circled when addressing her presence; he was unaware it was shock that stung his behaviors, that it begged for a period of mayhem and took it regardless. He didn't want to deal with her anymore. From start to finish, there always seemed to be certainty of how he felt of her- but what he felt fluctuated so terribly often.

Moments before he had assigned himself a role and was already absconding from it. It haunted him, apparitions that warped around his body and blemished his existence.

" _I don't want to hurt you."_

The mystification as the person before him fell to her knees in total surrender; a pause but not a hesitation in his acceptance.

" _I need you._ "

The touch of her hand stilling, prompting him to leave her alone among the inscriptions so she may accept their salvation for them both. The otherworldly rain dripping black from the wooden sky. A brief marvel of Bendy staggering towards the lamb before suddenly stepping out of existence.

" _Do you have a name?"_

The mortification as her glassy eyes judged him, unnerving him like never before, challenging his solace.

" _I can't."_

The downward curl in his lips as she sat helpless, quietly bawling. The burden on his shoulders and they crossed the threshold into the river. The thump rippling through him, unsure which heart it was.

" _It's okay if you don't have a name."_

And again, these were the words that stopped him in his aimless path. He had emerged into what must have been the surface-level entrance and stared at the door. The door. It was so, tauntingly close. It was an orifice of a dragon born of black magic and childish veracities; it would greedily eat anything that stepped through its teeth and never let it out, not even in death. Even the worst of behemoths excreted the remains of its digestion. There was no such dignity for those who wandered the entrails of the studio- half dissolved scraps unable to break through the final barrier to whatever lay beyond expiry.

He observed that the hole in front of the front door had finished healing, not even a scab where it gashed open. It was still unsettling to witness after all these years.

The heart of the dragon pulsed overhead, veins of pipes carrying the lustrous blood of void to the ink machine.

This was holy ground. He came here only if there was something his lord had delivered to his people, a blessing of the outside for them to keep as they bided for release. There usually weren't such small gaps between his visits; he glimpsed her here but was delayed in his retrieval as she fled to the trap- just before he could grip the hood of her squatty, dense cloak.

He knew there was no such things to chaperone to the depths now, and still he came. He instinctively, reflexively searched for the signs of his lord, and yet he was resigned to accept righteous fury for breaking the commandment.

Sinfully, he stayed.

It was still so surreal to have received this lamb. It didn't happen often, and the last one that he had in his fold was long, long past. His lord had taken for himself the wandering sheep time after time before the prophet could gently escort them to their fate instead; he had heard their helpless bleats as Bendy absolved them of their mortality. It was a heavenly ritual that his prophet knew was not for others to witness, leaving him unable to explain what it was that Bendy did to these chosen few. And it was never that the ink demon simply caressed the soul instead of quickly stringing a claw over its gullet, washing the blood over its hide and his own.

She…she…

" _I think there's a lot we need to talk about."_

She had no idea that there were as many questions he had for her as she for him.

A black spot in the corner of his eye.

He flinched backward, tripping onto a chair behind him. Fortuitously he had not fallen entirely- just simply toppled a chair and was coerced into balance, putting him in the vulnerable position of outstretched limbs and a chest bare and inviting to his lord's talons. It had happened enough times that he didn't correct himself but simply stayed put for the retribution.

Until he saw it wasn't his lord at all.

A lump. Its texture was splattered with the slick blood of the studio, but there were islands among them showing a dull, coarse material.

Still fighting instinctive immobility, he leaned forward in caution, flattening himself like a fox finding a freshly killed rabbit shortly after its own tail was snipped off in a hunter's trap. There was a glimmer of metal that poked through the stains. He took a step. It was something he knew. Recognition required a short intermission as this was an uncommon sight. It was a zipper.

Tension was released, knowing he was indeed summoned to retrieve manna of the outside.

* * *

Pie-cut eyes guarded the door, scrutinizing any who loitered down the lengthy hall. The cutout faced him, intimidating but permissive of his entry.

He had returned. He dreaded to feel regret in doing so- knew he likely would- but he had not left her for good. Somehow, he should not.

There was dusty, thick glass that glazed the office of someone who must have been important sometime long ago. It was ghastly with decay; the window cracked more and more with each visit, it seemed. Through the brown-yellow grime and the strobing hallway lamp, it took him a long time to notice something was very wrong.

Bendy's likeliness saw her first, over the disciple's shoulder the woman stepping through the door frame to the left and behind. Sopped pant bottoms were cut from the view as she lifted her chin into the empty space of the cartoon's vision, a small figure behind his overwhelming manifestation. She pressed something into her bosom, unknowing they both had gifts intended for one another, first tithings of union. These things would serve as both irreversible disturbances of their minds and miracles for their spirits.

A bag hit the ground in reply to her gospel.

"Sammy?"

* * *

 **Notes on edits to this chapter:**

Changes as of 12/15/17:

The two changes are:

1) I have stated within the story that he picked the office to leave her despite Sammy having knowledge it is not the safest room.

2) I have much more strongly implied that she threw her phone through the glass window in frustration. Although hilarious, it did not somehow drop from her hands through a solid plane of glass that was at least a few feet out of her reach.

Thank you for sticking with me despite this issue, and please feel free to inform me any time in the future if there are such glaring mistakes.

Changes as of 1/28/2018:

I don't...remember...giving her a flashlight? And yet I typed that? It's gone now; she only brought her phone.

Thank you for sticking with me despite this issue, and please feel free to inform me any time in the future if there are such glaring mistakes.


	9. Kindness of a Coin Toss

Notes: For those who have read Chapter 8 before 12/15/17, please read the notes at the end of the previous chapter.

* * *

 **9- Kindness of a Coin Toss**

" _His sister stood at a distance to see what would happen to him."_ \- Exodus 2:4

* * *

Blood.

 **Ink.**

Blood.

 **Ink.**

Sammy's mouth widened only to drown. It ate him inside out. He could hear her scream. He could hear Susie scream.

* * *

"That… _is_ your name…" Still pink, still wet eyeballs shifted in their sockets, nervous of what she felt inside her and then of what she saw ahead. Her words were steeped in mourning; for some reason she was still clinging to life. "…Right?"

His back stayed facing away from her, tar overlapped by strips of cloth.

"I just…that name keeps coming up everywhere. And I- I found this." She feebly lifted a tape to show him as if he could see behind his own head. For all she knew, he did.

The grey box slowly rested back into her stomach as an awareness was born. He was shaking.

Oh god, what had she done?!

"I'm- I'm SO sorry! I- I should have thought- I should have known-!" She shrunk backwards, awaiting his fury. He obviously didn't want her to know his name or at least not to acknowledge it. He had avoided the topic like it pricked sewing needles into tongues. She was so _stupid._

She recalled her escape- consumed by grief, she had forced open the office door, diving into the cancerous flow of ink only to fail to find her prized phone. It wasn't even ankle deep. But even so, it was just…gone.

The fear from the river eventually came back to her and she picked herself up and out. Preternaturally, most of the ink that clung to her body sunk back down to the puddle like metal shreds to a magnet. Some, however, still hung as leeches to dirty garments and bare hands.

She kept moving forward but hadn't gotten far when she heard his arrival, and yet this was enough searching to grasp in her hands a truth. It was his voice- definitely his voice- inscribed with a claim. _Sammy Lawrence._

It was clear now to be forbidden fruit as she and he joined paths again. Her jaw clenched. She was prepared; not sure for what, but she was prepared.

Or so she thought.

"Sammy?" She bit her lip, ashamed to immediately be so accustomed to the word; it was thoughtlessness awaiting rage.

Again, unfulfilled expectations. He stood there noiselessly, refusing to respond.

Unable.

He kept shaking, and she finally comprehended.

Then empathy persuaded common sense.

She followed a counterclockwise path that met him at the cusp of the office wall and the pool of ink he stepped into. Instead of fleeing the spider's web, she entangled herself further within. The light and shadow shifting as she moved, he emerged before her as a thin silhouette- a glossy, bare chest with boney arms. Maybe arms lacking bone, instead.

If one expected the response he gave, it would be predicted to be after a touch against his slimy hide. But no; it didn't even provide a chance for her to step over whatever was sinking by his side. As the sole of her shoe joined him in the puddle, he finally turned.

…And he flinched away from her, shoulders tight and ready for savagery from where she stood. A yelp echoed down the corridor, repeating his admission.

It was a genuine, stinging dread. She could feel it.

They stared at each other in heavy breath and emotional nakedness. Her face flushed red from tears and ire, and her muscles hardly lifted themselves anymore. His face was captive by another not his own, only willing to tease the teeth in his head as he gaped. His frame stayed tautened and trembled with reflexive agony.

The beings smothered in black saw their sensations lapse through each other, drops of dye spreading on opposing ends of a bowl of water- two people that ached in their souls from the trials of reanimation.

From then on, they were equals.

* * *

Her knees bent, encompassing between her thighs a near-empty tin can smeared with goo; more of it coated her arm with a swipe to clean her face. She leaned back against a corner and could be barely glimpsed from the few yards away in the hall where they met.

Across was the man drooping over a chair, loose with fatigue. Even in his distress and exhaustion he went out of his way to find her food. She disregarded the possibility it may be spoiled; a sick stomach was more welcome than a vacant one. Despite her fears of him- of this place- she was grateful.

As this was all he had done since he found her wandering, it was obvious something deeply troubled him, maybe as much as these things troubled her.

"…Yes," he conceded.

She scrunched her face, having said nothing to prompt this. "E…excuse me?"

"That…" Even in times of uncertainty, his voice had always proven to be forward as an arrow; it wavered now with the distress of change. "That must be my name."

Plastered over the walls, engraved into plaques, and even labeling recordings of his own words- he had not recognized the remnants of himself scattered around him. Song sheets inscribed with his creations and identity had flown from a music stand of his existence; they only drifted as far as an office fan could stir loose papers through a bureau with no open windows. And yet he never gathered them.

Still could not.

It was true. These surrounding clues to the mystery of his past brought no relief; it only made him scared, scared that his humanity was so shattered that even with pieces spread before his eyes…that it still wasn't rebuilt. Yet, his mind strained past distress and into faith.

"Thank you, Bendy." It was a quiet breath laced with the weight of tribulation. He did not see the woman's confused expression slacken into worry.

He had only briefly explained…"Bendy" to her.

" _Bendy…"_

" _Wh-what? The character?"_

" _The…the demon…"_

And since, it continued to pour dread down her spine.

Even so, it was wrong of her to prompt him so shortly after he seemed to endure some kind of episode, she admitted. She felt if she pressed him again now it would only be more of the same he spoke in the hall- cryptic and vague answers that filled her mind. One phrase among his mutterings started to harden in her heart.

" _It's time to believe."_

It sounded like the hiss of a snake being stoned to death; now he was acknowledging only what was said before his quivers and murmurs, as if the name she gave possessed him and left that time blank in his memory. He had been dead silent till now, had been since he took the first step out of the ink.

"Sammy," she restated softly, not to address him but to reaffirm the discovery. She expected him to at least nod in reply, but it wasn't even that she received. He sat still, head bent low and arms entirely lax as they had been before.

Her mouth skewed, embarrassed she anticipated so much. She could imagine lifechanging shock but not the release of your entire foundation of being, as must be his reality. It may have been too unkind to her survival, but this was the moment allowed herself to soften; she soundlessly promised she would be more considerate. She saw the irony in that but didn't care. Weariness degraded that grudge, at least for now and for this. It was more for her own sanity anyway.

And just after this promise she had realized in regret that out of all the things she needed to know, there was still one that had to be squeezed out of him immediately.

"Sammy." This was meant for him, sharp with concentration. He stiffened and left unsure if this was in recognition or lassitude. She pressed onward all the same.

"There's something I need to know from you, before I want to ask about anything else." It was…comfort. A counselor's tone, hoping that how it came across may distract him from whatever woe was upon him; it was a tone she conceived to lull him as best as possible into a response. She _needed_ an answer, so she pushed past tremors in her veins and voice.

"Is that okay?"

He lifted his head and head alone to look at her, and she soon felt the risk in giving him an option. Again, he long replied with silence. She couldn't see a change in his face but still felt him watch her closely, looking through and over every inch of her. Then she saw his mouth open.

"Yes."

Too powerful to be contained any longer, her heartache was released as it became her turn to hang her head, leaving him puzzled. This vulnerability was unfamiliar and agitated him, but he somehow knew it was important. So he waited, fixed in surprise and disturbance.

Even so low to the ground and tilted away, her grimace was visible as it tried to sneer away tears and prime herself for the inevitable.

"I need to know," she began through gritting teeth, "if you've seen him."

Him? She had paused, necessitating he ponder. It left him flustered and with only one guess. "…Bendy?"

A tear finally broke past her lashes.

"N…no." With great effort she tried to remained patient, hardly keeping at bay the flood of terror she now had for his single word. Even as the flame journeyed to greet dynamite, she impudently chose to endure.

"A…a boy. Ha-have you seen…a little boy?"

His body slanted at this bizarre inquiry.

"I-I came…I came here to find him. We haven't-…" She was interrupted by a hiccup. "…He's been gone for over a week, and-…"

No amount of human strength could have made her keep going. The only reason she had come to this abyss was her speculation; the remaining places to search were those of no meaning to she and the others who sought for him- no purpose and yet all that was left, as the abandoned studio was. Her hands flattened together and pressed over her lips, but they were unable to keep inside the memories, the sensations that congealed within her.

…Gabby couldn't be here. If…if he was…

She couldn't verbalize the hell, the torture a mere runaway would have received just for walking into a building.

…She didn't want to imagine the man before her being a part of it.

No amount of human strength could accept that.

He only knew the little information she let float into the air between him, and yet it was enough. Despite his isolation, his apathy, his ignorance of the weight her body carried with her every step she had taken out of love…he crudely understood that no matter his reply, it would shape her into someone else- the someone she'd remain to be for however long he'd know her.

…Forever.

"No."

She gasped and flung her head to look at him, stunned as he gifted her this amelioration. Almost uncomfortable with his own kindness, he sat back in his chair and slowly averted their locked sight by choosing to face away. His flat profile- now unhidden by the angle of his mask- was rounded only by ridges that breathed her liberation.

"I have not seen another lamb wander past the gates in a very, very long time."

It took a few seconds before she bit her trembling lips and her eyes warped shut, still unable to keep back tears.

A sacrificial purgatory weaved through her as vines over a rusty fence, easing her against the wall behind her back- and then even further, sliding down the edge of the doorway by her side. She twisted with the descent and her watch was led away from the mask's callous smile until she lay on the floor, neck sloppily aligned with the entry like a guillotine.

From there she could see the ink-encased cage that kept her before; the face of the mask now appeared again to look down upon her from afar, the ever-watching eyes of this gallery. She could read through the window a single psalm:

 **IT'S TIME TO BELIEVE**

And then she didn't know if she could.

She felt somehow God had let the Devil pick her instead, releasing the woman from one set of chains into another.


	10. Fellowship

**10- Fellowship**

" _Iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another."_ – Proverbs 27:17

* * *

There was no telling how long it had been until she felt her ear scrape against the floorboards. Her new companion had gripped her left leg in both his arms, dragging her sharply backwards like the rope in a tug-o-war. A heavy groan rang in her head alongside the pain.

She had made a mistake. She let her guard down. She had become too trusting. She shouldn't have thought she could be even _remotely_ safe with him. She was so stupid. She-

She heard something down the hall.

Now that her head was out of the hallway, he hastily shoved her into the nearest corner; he practically tried to squeeze her in like her body would and could melt to fit the sharp angle, but the best that was done was a tight, uncomfortable standing lean that ached her backbone. He pushed down on her toes with his feet to pin down the kicks and flails. Then one arm at a time he held her wrists. The touch that slipped past her sleeves was indescribable.

The prophet's cracked head came within an inch of hers to whisper-

"Stay still…You need to stay still…"

She soon understood why, but the explanation left even more unanswered.

As she stared at him, a sloshing noise grew louder and louder…nearing where they hid. It was rhythmic, like…walking. So compressed in this position, she had barely noticed past his open scowl that something was manifesting behind him.

She would later be grateful to not taste ink as one of his hands moved to cover her mouth, the vibration of her yell bouncing back onto her own tongue.

The upper half of a man- head, arms, and torso alone- dragged itself down the hall, made of ink and only ink. Remnants of itself were left in a trail of gooey clumps that dissolved into the floor within seconds.

Harsh and strained with intent, Sammy instructed her, "Let me know if it chooses to leave or to turn around." He felt the impression of the word "what?" upon his palm.

Then her eyes widened even more as the monster rotated once it reached the pool and slid to confront them.

"Around! Around!" came an urgent, muffled cry.

Sammy shifted his body once again to cover the being from her view- its view from her. Even though she no longer fought back, he hardly lightened his pushing. It sent her in a panic to hear her spine crack as he did so; it wasn't anything more than a noise, but it was a noise that might have been heard. She could feel the tension within him and it seeped into her, only adding to the discomfort.

A choked gargle was heard as it came closer; it seemed to be a communication of aggression and belligerence. She fleetingly could see past the man as this beast lifted its dripping arms and a hole opened in its head- a mouth that could hardly stay open as flesh melted back into itself.

It had seen him through the doorway. If it had seen her as well was left to be shown.

Sammy replied to it as he often had to her; he remained as he was, not looking, not reacting- only facing ahead at the person in his clasp.

There was something etched into his face- an expression she could not name but one that pierced her all the same. Her heart sank into her stomach when she glimpsed over his shoulder that the monster suddenly reared back.

…and then she heard a shuffle that grew quieter and quieter.

Soon there was nothing more than the blood in her ears.

Relief and a harsh pulse flooded her extremities as he finally removed himself from her. Her heavy gasps for air were accompanied by his silent acknowledgment- his patience; this was only a sliver of what the prophet knew waited for her, and yet it was still so much. He had earthly fear and vulnerability wash off him long ago, but as her mortality dirtied his pristine acceptance of Bendy and his embrace…there began a symbiosis- an exchange of sensations and emotions.

He had grown to fear _for_ her; it was an unfamiliar and anxiety-ridden experience that he loathed to recognize.

Even in the dark he appeared was almost inhumanly tall as he stood over her, allowing her time to recompose. Yet again, she could not to his expectations.

"What the _hell_ was that?!" Her hands slapped the sides of her face as she loudly begged for even a hint of rationality.

One side of his mouth stretched in agitation and she then covered her own as a child would, suddenly aware that such volume was deadly. And as he judged her, questioning his sympathy so soon after finding it, she abruptly realized what had happened- what he was doing.

Her ungratefulness was horrific to her.

"I…th-…" She sighed, squinting at him in weariness and shame. "…Thank you." It felt wrong to say; the adrenaline that believed he was assaulting her was still coursing in her veins. But there was still something left to fear.

His expression laxed only slightly at her new awareness, shifting from alarm to focus.

"My sheep…it seems we aren't safe here." He already knew that; it had been ignored throughout the blinding light of cognizance up until now.

Her brow deepened into her skin at how he addressed her, but there were more pressing matters at hand. "Wh-where-?" She couldn't finish her sentence as she discovered in her own words that she was again at his mercy or even lack thereof. But she had no choice.

He kept his gaze at her momentarily, but it soon went to the hall. Down the corridor, he saw no sign of the searcher nor any other. But he knew that they would come anyway like drops of rain in a cloudless sky.

There wasn't another pentagram nearby.

And then- he saw lord's blessings. He had forgotten. Sammy turned his back to her and walked to the office, filling her with dread until she saw him walking back with something decently large in his grip. Why was…he only walking back, not running?

She didn't know that it was mortal blood that the searchers craved, he having listened before as they surged over flesh and tried to engulf from the inside out.

And yet very soon, this wouldn't be the most urging thought in his mind.

* * *

Slow footsteps followed his in what have been a signal of mice to the cat that they came to be chased. She jumped back with a small yelp as he turned to look at her.

"Stay close…until I tell you to stay," he hummed.

Her cheeks pulled back to question him, but he had already put a glistening finger over the hole in his guise as a motion of hush. She chose to comply.

She noted he seemed…lighter. There was something. Something was in him she couldn't place, and it made her almost as uncomfortable as what seemed to be the possibility of seeing that- that _THING_ again. It didn't fit what she saw so far; in the past hours she had only known his anger, his misery, his loss. This was…dang it what was it?! Fuck it! _Fuck this guy!_

She didn't dare say any of that, of course.

Her unease grew louder and louder with every step nearing the end of the corridor. She hardly even noticed the offices they passed along the way. This wasn't nearly as far as she had made it before on her own; she was more than anxious to see what else would come. Sammy would have worded it less kindly, but he too knew this of her. That was the precise reason why he didn't speak any more than he had to, lest she panic and lose what little agency was left in her.

It was brighter here; the size of the gallery ahead allowed for less shadow. Music mutely fuzzed through a nearby speaker and even though it was anything but sudden and had sung for them this whole time, she was still caught off guard.

Music. Even as it mocked her with childish pep, it was an instinctive relief, at least mildly so.

It was enough to finally oil her neck with courage and she slowly peered side to side. There was a wall just in front of them, but to the right seemed to be a large entryway connected to a staircase. To the left was hung a dull sign that spelled "RECORDING" just beside a room she could not yet see into; it was barricaded by a metal wall, the kind she'd see at an auto shop or at a closed mall store. The prophet chose the dead end.

There must have been open space under the sheet she had not seen as it lifted slightly with a push of his foot. Then with a catch in his palm he heaved it upward and held it there to allow entrance.

An old metallic rumble sifted through the air and drifted across the black field that lay ahead, their figures solid against a backdrop of radiance as it looked upon them. As soon as the rumbling ceased a thud came from overhead accompanied by blinding light. The sign they had passed now flitted with a dim, shivering glow.

The arm she used to shield her eyes slowly lowered, passing over her face as a magician would to reveal a slight of hand. An expression of foreboding disappeared and left behind one of awe.

It was a square tavern at least two stories tall. Like the rest of the studio it was fashioned from old wood swamped in dust and dreariness, and yet there was somehow less of both. It was less…dead, even as it sat empty of life.

Three directions, one at a time, came to her.

Forward like watching a movie screen from the back of an empty theater was a windowed box cut into the wall. It was far and indiscernible, but the woman could see a strange, tall silhouette within.

A…familiar one.

Right, a gallery. A small opening where a Bendy- oh god, let's not think about that word- stand peaked far above as if a spectacle lay before them. She soon found there was.

The left.

The left side did something neither of them expected, in the end.

Archaic microphones dangled from the ceiling like fairy lights over elevated rows of chairs. Their arrangement filled her with nostalgia even before she comprehended what she was looking at, but soon she did.

The ghost of an orchestra was stringed with instruments here and there as if band members would reappear behind them any second to reclaim their thrones and rise the bells of their horns to the sky. They all-…

She mindlessly walked through the gate past her shepherd and rested two fingers gingerly on the violin; it seemed to sit wordlessly in tension, waiting to be plucked.

Smooth. Scratched and even chipped, but…unlike every inch of this place, there wasn't a single spec of dust that kept her prints from sticking to the surface of the wood.

Realization once again rushed through her but in an entirely new manner. Taking a half-step, the human looked over her shoulder to see the ink man just…standing there, hand still raising the tin plates over his head while the other still dangled his lord's manna. With his true expression again hidden, she still somehow knew- could feel- an aura about him different than before, as if he was showing her something.

That was it.

"This is all yours, isn't it?"

He inhaled with a grunt- a laugh. He had laughed.

"It has been _gifted_ for me to use, to use so I may sing the old songs that overflow my heart."

Despite these words sounding like they were ripped from a poetry book, she was dumfounded to see once again that he was a person. Unknown to her, it was all the more human of him how he was behaving earlier, how he relaxed. Once he had noticed that by Bendy's grace- or power- the searchers were keeping to themselves, he had lost his whim. He lost it to whatever was found traced along the edges of his instruments. It happened so often and yet as it happened now, excitement ran through him with unmatched stamina.

After all, it isn't every day that someone asked him about what _he_ spent his life doing, fulfilling his purpose to Bendy. Not even his spite of her could take that away from him, not even his newly broken identity that lay crushed in her hands.

 _She_ now had traced with her fingers the hymns these instruments begged to release; they were never before allowed anything but the worn strums of a cursed prophet. This was new, sharp, and strong like a finely tuned harp that stood next to an impassioned church choir, bequeathing them its youth. They begged for her, the old strings; he heard them do so. There was a small shimmer next to his lips as two dents appeared by each cheek.

Now mind you, this woman had walked straight into torment and agony.

She had seen the depths of unholy reanimation- of both this studio and herself.

She had discovered within that same day that not only was her baby cousin still missing but that she had sought for him here for no reason at all, only leading to her pointless demise.

She had been given no hint of mercy or hope that she'd ever leave; she hoped all the same, but something in her soul tried to console her as if this man before her was still truly enveloped in delusion- that this "he" would never help her leave, "set us free" as her captor had said. That her visions and his words were all machinations of pain and insanity as she lay dying on the floor, under the spotlight so close to the exit. Or worse yet, maybe it was entirely the truth. It felt like she was waiting for a sucker punch to wake her up already. And yet it might all be what really was.

She found herself being held by the hand by a man with no memory into his abyss, a catacomb flooded with death.

And somehow, impossibly, she smiled back.


	11. His Truth, His Lies

**11- His Truth, His Lies**

" _Take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them."_ – Ephesians 5:11

* * *

"Really?"

He nodded in reply.

As they sat together on the edge of the musicians' platform, she turned her incredulous look at him into a blank stare to the floor that was almost wide enough to let in the certainty of his words.

Almost.

"Shit."

It was…a lot to take in all at once, to understate it. Heck, it was probably too much to take in over a whole lifetime, but here it was. And it was all her responsibility to accept- an unfeasible task; she needed help.

"Let me just- let me just try to catch your drift here," she started, raising her hands in a whirl about her head as if doing so could yank thoughts directly from her mind. He stayed silent and so she continued, closing her hands into fists even as they sat purposelessly by her chin.

"So that thing I saw when-…" She hesitated once she had to describe this putrid moment. "-When you had me tied up, was- was 'Bendy.'" It was pronounced as a statement, but she was obviously waiting for him to confirm it with a "yes" or "no." She didn't notice he was distracted by her fingers, the index and middle of each hand curling and uncurling twice to verbalize quotation marks.

It unnerved her, but she assumed his quiet meant his assurance.

"And," she began again with words so heavy, so alien and magic that not even her own tongue could help her make sense of it. "…It… _he_ …kept me from dying."

Speech had come back to him. "Yes, dear sheep. He rained down upon you his life and his blessings so that you may remain as you are before me now."

And then there was a question that should have never been asked.

"Why?"

He turned away from her and tilted his chin upward, towards the cutout that peered at the two disciples from above. It smiled. It only ever smiled, but now it seemed to do so without secrecy, with concealment. Sammy's gaze lowered to the ground with his unanswered prayers.

"…I do not know."

For some reason, this was the hardest answer for her to swallow.

There was a pregnant and awkward pause between them as they both attempted to absorb what little, confusing information had been left at their feet. It filled the two of them with uncertainty of their lives, their purpose.

"When-…"

Sammy's knuckles clenched unconsciously.

"When will he let us go back?"

He had informed her just a moment ago in one fell swoop that attempt after attempt, not a single soul ever saw the light again- that the door only let in, not out. That Bendy was their only salvation. That somehow, Bendy would set them free. Now was the time for her to know _how_.

"When we believe."

And suddenly, he heard a soft noise. By his side, the woman pulled her head into her lap and started to cry once more.

"My sheep…"

His demeanor now was foreign to his past actions, unlike how he treated her before. He remembered when he touched her hand as she died, how she called for the shepherd- had asked for him to stay by her side. How they both from then on were at Bendy's mercy together, not apart.

He touched her hand again now as he was overcome with the love of his lord.

It hardly remained for a second as she recoiled with a thick gasp, leaving them both cut from the sharp tension and unease with one another in this newfound communion. Their burning emotions could have singed stone.

…

"I…I…"

She held her left palm gingerly as if she was protecting it- not from him, but from the candidness of this moment. Her face reddened with tears somehow became redder as her eyes searched over him, unsure of what to do- think- say-…and then…pink.

Then she saw _pink_.

The thing he dragged along with him down the hall, even sullied and coated like chocolate over a strawberry, still held a splotch uncoated from the black. She could see it now that she had pulled away from his side.

There were many impossible things that day, but this was impossible even within his own answers.

* * *

"My sheep-!"

" _STAY AWAY FROM ME!"_

The woman had thrown herself backwards, legs split and shoulders raised, ready to run, to fight, _whatever_ was coming her way.

He filled with shock and shame, a rug pulled from under his feet and leaving his body unsure of where it was.

…He really was _that_ disgusting wasn't he? That even the gentlest touch of his hand was enough to consume her with violent repulsion.

He couldn't believe that he had forgotten this most basic reality of the beings of the ink, that he had behaved as if the woman's presence somehow made him more human- a terrible mistake. That could never be. The truth had returned to slap him back into his place.

Even as second after second passed, neither of them would or could move from these positions.

He dared, he dared to speak.

"My sheep, I-…"

" _Stop calling me that!"_ she bellowed, unsheathing her words like a knife. "What is that?! Where did you get that?!"

What?

Her glower deepened as she pointed with the full extent of her arm.

"Where. Did. You. Get that?" she restated with a hushed fury.

He looked behind him and saw the bag laying by his feet. He was alarmed; she knew something about it he did not, like it was an ancient relic of evil meant to never be touched.

"…I can't believe I thought I could trust you."

His whole torso twisted to face her in bewilderment.

"That." She pointed at it again, taking another step back. "That's my bag."

She left a pause in the air, but quickly grew impatient for him to piece the puzzle together himself.

"I left my bag _outside!"_

Sammy was frozen, completely unsure of what fueled this fire that was burning through her. She sighed heavily, weary with anger and pain. Her next words were gentler, but only for her sake.

"If you know how to leave, I need to know, Sammy. I need to find him. I need to go home."

He looked back and forth, between the bag and the woman. Finally, he understood.

"My sheep," he said a fourth time, finding firmness and calm despite how she had thrown everything that had sat between their souls. She started to whimper and squint tears back by throwing her head to towards anything besides the man in front of her. She couldn't fathom why he would choose to keep her here, to lie to her to such an extent, to make her believe that maybe a few fake acts of compassion could wash away every stain he left on her life.

 _Every. Last. Time. He had chosen to hurt her._

"Don't call me that… Please…"

Once again, gasps for air amid cries made her wheeze. Once again, she knew she needed to keep talking as it was her last hope. Her voice was subdued and scarcely able to be heard.

"You…you…why do you hate me?" He could see suffering in her grimace. "Why are you keeping me here?"

Something he couldn't name filled him and made him feel heavy and light all at once. It compelled his lips to part and his oily fingers to touch his heart.

"…I don't hate you."

She was unbearable, incomprehensible, and volatile; she was the epitome of it now. She tried to take away everything good he had here, every security he had in his faith. She had heaved an axe into the reflection he saw in his mirror, and now all that was left was broken glass fading into the rivers of ink; they only gave glimpses of who he had really been- who he was- and it somehow disfigured an already blighted existence.

And yet, hate was no longer the right word.

But this did nothing but rip open her old wounds.

"You said _'SACRIFICE,'_ Sammy! You said I was a _sacrifice! I HEARD YOU- I REMEMBER_!"

Her words echoed far from the recording studio. It reverberated into the pipes, and a shudder could be felt within the black blood. It spoke only the truth, and it begged the same of him.

He had sins to answer for.


	12. Pentecost

**12- Pentecost**

 _"And all who believed were together and had all things in common."_ – Acts 2:44

* * *

 _So. Much. For. Sacrifice._

His own confession was summoned from the past, a demon he no longer desired to do his will. A lot had changed since he said his first words to her, since Bendy left her in his custody.

As she stood before him now, devoured by her heartache and struggles, for a breath he could do nothing but purse his lips and sigh in his own agony. For the first time since she arrived, he thought he understood. But since it had taken so long to, it had come to this- to her possibly irreversible distrust and ferocity. And maybe he could not yet fully comprehend it, but now he began to scratch off the mystery encapsulating her strange behavior.

She was scared. She was scared of… _him._ After all, he was the first being to find her here…and he welcomed her presence by dragging and entrapping her with not even a second of delay. And unlike him, she just continued to wither and wither with each horror; she had no respite, no healing, no rest.

She was a bird with a broken wing that would squawk and peck viciously because the very hand she needed was the one that had harmed her.

He prayed that Bendy would forgive him. He prayed that he could undo the ever-tightening, strangling knots in what tied she and him together.

Sammy had to start his penance now, while there was still time- before he would be sentenced for the evils he committed. There was much more to say, but here was a beginning:

"I'm sorry."

* * *

Every part of her seemed to melt in disbelief. They were words that…contradicted him- him as the person he had solidified himself to be in her journey.

Sorry? He was…sorry?

No. No. He was trying to lull her back into his ruse.

"I…I don't…" Her brow furrowed so hard that her eyes closed, and yet she could still see the glistening man in her mind. "I don't believe you."

 _Step._

Her shoulders stiffened into her chest and she clenched her fists tighter. She wouldn't look. She shouldn't.

"You…you speak only the truth about how I have harmed you."

Oh, how quickly did her commitment fade as she looked upon him again, her eyes beholding those of his mask- those flat spots of paint that seemed to look back.

"I know I need to atone for my sins before it's too late."

A slight, high pitch sound stirred in her throat as her lids stretched wide at this ominous promise. No- no, he couldn't think he can trick her this easy! She wouldn't let him do whatever he had planned!

"Sammy- Sammy, I-!…" And yet she had no more words. He took another step.

"There's things you don't understand- don't believe about this place. I've taken that for granted. I've taken you for granted."

Somehow her expression of shock could only keep growing beyond what seemed to be its limit.

"I've taken my lord and his mercy for granted."

And then it was clear to her she had no idea what was going on anymore.

Sammy seemed…to be softening in the lights that reached him. He was still, and yet not rigid. The person was melting into someone new- or maybe this was him all along, broken free by human interaction and empathy. He now spoke in barely a whisper, enveloped by discovery and regret.

"You're not the first I've tried to sacrifice. This was not the first time…that Bendy has given me the choice to leave the path of wickedness." His body trembled, began to _ripple_ the ink that wrapped around his soul. She barely, barely heard him speak. "…And maybe this time I'll finally appreciate his miracles."

Finally, he moved ever so slightly. He shrunk backward in a tiny shrug, realizing there needed to be a clearer path in his story for her to follow.

"You say that this is yours?" he asked, barely swinging a hand backward to gesture at the bag behind him.

There was a pause before she nodded, unsure of the inquiry.

"And that you did not bring it with you once you broke past our barrier, into his realm?"

The language he was using disturbed her, but she nodded again even though she thought for certain he already knew these things. He had gone outside to take it, after all.

Right?

Inexplicably, his next mutter was filled with sadness. "I'm afraid that this was not my doing." Before she could retort once more, he continued. "If I could leave, I would never come back."

That was true, and it began to seed within her.

"No…no…I…I think you've been lying to me. You're making that up…You just…don't…" She eventually managed to birth the rest of her deepest fears from her mouth. "…don't want me to leave."

"You saw him, didn't you?"

She gasped.

"You saw our savior." Another step.

There was an overpowering feeling in her chest as she remembered, not just her dying moment but also of just minutes before when Sammy talked to her about "Bendy." The way he described her own dying vision to her before she fully explained what she saw even to herself.

It was real. God, it was real. He had seen it too.

That was the foundation of her conspiracy theory- the idea that he was manipulating her by saying hallucinations were gods to make her stay when she fully well could leave. And now that this was gone-…

He saw her gaze laid behind him at her possessions- unknowing it was a blank stare- so he responded. "It was bestowed upon us by our lord. He sometimes brings gifts of the outside, as a reminder of what lies ahead. Such a thing as this, however…is very unusual," and he continued before any more could be asked, beckoning into their minds a question.

"I don't know what you've done to find his favor."

Sammy shook his head, and small flecks of black dropped to the floor. These thoughts were besides the point.

"Forgive me…There's other things I know that you still don't. Let's not dwell on what neither of us comprehend."

Her eyes streaked side to side and eventually fell back upon him. Yes, he was definitely different now; It was like watching a snowman laying underneath a false spring sun. Yet all that she could say was an automatic, "It's okay."

He sighed once more, his pant slightly wet in its release.

"My lord…punished me harshly the first time I tried to offer a sacrifice." He sounded fully haunted by this memory; this sentence alone stained her with dread as well, and yet there was more to come. "And then…my savior stopped me once again from shedding blood. But unlike the one before you, you were…" She felt his gaze over her whole body, observing the marvel of her existence. "You were already dying."

The discomfort that writhed into her like parasitic worms consumed any desire to speak. This wasn't satisfying for him.

"…Do you understand?"

As she stood before him, it was obvious she did not. He had hoped she did so that the horrible reality of his entire purpose need not be put into words. It choked his heart; surely it would choke his throat.

"This whole time I've been wrong about my lord. I thought- I thought I knew him, and he's proven to me that such an audacity was what has cursed me this whole time."

He couldn't fathom how he was still speaking.

"I couldn't see that this was not what he wanted of me."

He had wasted so much time. He couldn't begin to unwrap the question of if he had grasped this sooner, if it would have changed how much he suffered- how long he waited to be freed. Maybe his past mistakes were conceived in boldness, but such passion had gradually spread through his veins.

"But I think I know what he wants of me now."

The waistband of his overalls had started to overflow, dribble by dribble. And as he took a deep breath, she observed his oozing slow and eventually cease. By the time he spoke again, the shine on his skin betrayed that his body was solidifying, returning to how he was before.

A voice like a wisp of wind blew over her scalp and cooled her skin.

"You're here," he whispered with childish wonder and amazement.

"This is different. He let you _live_. Live as you are, without becoming as a I am- without becoming this horrible, aching blob of emptiness!" He outstretched himself, overwhelmed by this fact, and eventually fell back down to his humble stance.

As she watched in total silence, the smallest movements in him spoke volumes upon volumes of experience, of suffering. He was a man stripped of everything he was and left only with the knowledge this is not who he should be. It was a life that was only worth living if one possessed hope; he was greatly cursed with such hope.

And in her own matching ignorance of him as he had of her, she also somehow knew this. She hated what it meant.

It meant that he was right.

This genesis of faith was perceived by him as well, and so the prophet evangelized.

"I wish I could explain his ways, his miracles, but…I know in the deepest crevasse of my soul that our exodus is _dawning_."

Now this, this was a statement that needed a reply, even as it provided much more confusion than it did relief to the woman. She spoke with firmness, with resolve.

"…How soon?"

He titled his head very slightly towards her, his great height now looming a shadow onto her being as he stood close.

"I cannot say. But…" His next words would either reveal her wisdom or her helplessness. "I think you may see the ones you love while they are still alive."

Her mom. Her dad. Her friends. Even Gabby. They were still out there, and always would be.

Her family was locked behind a huge, unimaginably tedious barricade of time…

…that now seemed small compared to eternal purgatory. She tightened her cheeks, facing her coming tears with bravery.

"It's better than never."

The world was quiet here; not even the music in the hall could interrupt this holy commitment. As they were seeped in totally contradictory emotions- one with the elation of release and the other with the obligation of imprisonment- they had once again strengthened their unification.

"My shee- my…friend."

And she saw he had reached his arm over the gap between them. Like before she had yelped, but now only lightly out of surprise rather than distress. Then, it refused to move any further; it would not touch without her consent. This time it was only for their mutual atonement, not for his selfish desires.

It had taken so long for her to respond that by the time her fingers uncurled and stretched towards his, he had begun to retract his own in embarrassment. They both gasped at the sight of each other, as they saw foreign flesh so close to their own. And then, little by little, blood and ink awkwardly inched to find each other and joined in fellowship.

She could feel that he was still dripping slightly, just a small wet touch somewhere leaking from his hand onto hers.

"Sammy…I…I believe you." She steadfastly looked his mask straight on. "I believe you."

The woman was so uneasy. She now knew she was not the first Sammy had tried to kill. She could infer that not only was it unnatural for her to be alive, but for her to not become as…as whatever Sammy was. And maybe he was lying, lying about how he was sorry for what he had done to her.

But she still believed that their existence was now one in the same.

"My dear," her companion corrected, "it's not me you need to believe in."


	13. The Giving Tree

**13- The Giving Tree**

" _A gift opens the way and ushers the giver into the presence of the great."_ \- Proverbs 18:16

* * *

The moment of timelessness was done and left behind discomfiture.

The two newfound cohorts amid the gloom were now left with no assurance of what action to take next, what needed to be done now that their cautious acceptance of one another was sealed; they had mundane living and surroundings that needed to be addressed.

It was difficult to realize this as they stood together, stunned and stinging because of their resolve in fate.

Despite being the one among them with the longest awaited, most harrowing and perspective-changing experience in this revelation, Sammy was the first to break free from the trance upon their souls. The man knew a search needed to begin.

"You require things I don't; I recall that much. I know there's more than I have here."

She came from the trance as well, perplexed until he elaborated.

"Your body- your human body. What does it need?"

Normally such a question could be answered by a 1st grade science student, but trauma and exhaustion slowed her mind. Her breath rose her shoulders slightly as her eyes narrowed and shifted to her left in contemplation.

"Water," she finally stated, "and food." The sides of her mouth pulled back in disappointment, realizing that the basics may now be a luxury. But if the necessities were indulgent, then these next wishes were ambrosia for her mortality:

"C-clean clothes would be nice." The more attention she paid to the stench from her jacket, the more she grasped it may now be clinging to her skin. "I'd love a shower or a bath, but I'm not sure how likely that would be. A bed or- or at least a blanket to sleep in, too."

One cheek pushed a wrinkle towards her eye as she glanced back at him. There was _much_ more she'd like to have. The impression books and movies had given her that people only crave the essentials when estranged from civilization was a lie, and it made her feel selfish. But what she listed out loud were the only items reasonable to ask of him, she knew that- and again, clean clothes and amenities were pushing it; who'd keep those things in a place of business? Who'd house them here and not take what they could with them when they left?

She remembered the tin can she once held between her legs. It was a mild relief that probably gave too much hope for more to come.

"You found that soup, so there's at least _some_ food around here. And, and maybe my bag _might_ have my change of clothes, but…do you know if you have any of those things?"

There was a terrible pause until the lean in his neck became a nod.

"I think that can be arranged."

And so he began to leave her and the bag behind until he heard a few taps behind his heels. Sammy half turned to peer back at the lost puppy.

"No, you're to stay here," he instructed, "I don't know how long it will be until I find what you're looking for."

The woman immediately filled herself with panic. As far as she knew, there was only one of those half-man monsters that wandered the halls, but what if it came back? It seemed to leave her alone when Sammy was nearby. It wasn't simply a matter of knowing what to do if it returned; it was a matter of never being near it again.

He had correctly assessed this fear from her expression.

"Do you remember what I told you on our way here?"

Her lips smoothed over her teeth. It felt like forever ago, but it was an hour at most, if even that. It was such a strange phrase, however, that it came back to mind.

"'Stay close until I tell you to stay?'" she pondered.

"Precisely." He turned his head, back facing her once more. "I will return very soon."

And with that, the ink man trudged out of the doorway and out of her sight.

The dread that swallowed her heart was muted by the sound of footsteps etching the outside of the room. They led across her and then…upward.

And then there was an echo as his last step led him into the recording studio once more.

A brief search placed the entrance near the Bendy cutout that had eyed her this whole time, but not quite there. A few feet closer to the upper corner ahead was another opening; a film projector was aimed over her head like a machine gun as Sammy's shiny chest deceived his otherwise camouflaged physique in the shadows.

She could barely hear him say, "Watch."

 _Pah-clunk._

A bright stream of light scattered overhead, barely skimming her hair. By the time she realized he was gone, he was already back- by her side.

And then behind her.

 _Bumm…_

A low note tinged the air. It barely hung before it was interrupted.

 _Tunk._

She turned again, but not in time.

 _Bing!_

A tinny noise rang about. She barely caught Sammy set something down as he ran to the opposite corner. She didn't know he could move this fast.

 _Ting…ting-a-ling-a-ding-_ and it continued the scale as a dreadful, loud noise accompanied the piano. His fingers orchestrated the fabrication of a black hole in the wall behind his back. Its birthing left her troubled, and it took a lifetime before he rose from the speckled keys, staring her way.

It was eventually evident he intended for her to come this direction. She reluctantly did so, finding that the hole was in fact a room; it was a long, quite narrow hallway with some sort of metal equipment at the end, otherwise totally vacant of both items and any sign of life.

Sammy awkwardly lifted his wrist to point into his creation. "This is my sanctuary. I come here when…" He seemed to be overcome with ponderance. "…I need to escape this world of distractions."

He lowered his arm and nodded very slightly, as if he had privately made a decision. "I trust you to make use of it if someone besides myself comes to visit."

Ah, so that's what this was. It was a sanctuary of his mind now being allowed to welcome her weary, feeble body. And with this simple assurance, the woman felt her lungs release.

"Thank you." As she said this, she realized she meant it more than she thought, so it necessitated sincerity.

"Thank you. I know that…" She peered shyly at his feet, having lost the confidence from before. "…that you don't need to help me."

His reply planted within her.

"I think I do."

* * *

And so she was sitting once again on the edge of the musician's platform- this time alone-, surrounded by familiarity amid her new universe. It had been a very long time since she sat among a band, even a vacant one, and yet she noticed how she felt at home.

" _Home…"_

Her eyes closed with the weight of loneliness and opened again; being the only lifeform in the room, there was no change in her surroundings to reveal how much time had passed in that blink. A second, a minute, an hour, a day? She supposed it didn't matter.

That fact in itself tried to eat at her soul, but she held the wisdom that she could not lose this fight; she forced herself back to her feet and pressured her heart to find distraction. She mindlessly wandered until she found something that might ground her.

 _Dmm…_

The strings of a banjo hummed softly at her touch; she felt the sharpness of them as they pushed into her fingertips. The woman was never a string player, and yet the stim of these instruments' vibrations through her nerves soothed her and deserved her admiration. In her desperation, she smiled down at the banjo and strummed her knuckles over its lines so it would speak again.

One of these bones stuck too far in between the strings and suddenly, the banjo sang so stridently.

It was an inelegant, strong sound- like someone proudly said the first word of an impassioned speech and then nothing more. She literally took a step back in surprise; it was much louder than she intended or expected. And as she did, that note flooded her and brought to the shores of her mind a memory.

Such a strange single note had reminded her how one of her favorite songs went.

Soon the banjo was in her lap and she was clumsily fiddling with the strings, trying in vain to recreate the music in her heart. After a few minutes or so she finally found a chord; there were many chords in the song, but one was enough for her. She strummed it gently in a sloppy rhythm as she recalled the words.

The lyrics came to her with ease, even as it returned to her ears in an echo that made her self-conscious, even embarrassed- yet she kept on. It was the recreation of a children's story for the heartache of adults; it told of how someone would give and give until every piece of themselves was no longer their own. It was a beautiful, thankless love that draped over the evils of being a martyr. Even with such melancholy, it was emotion that took her and repelled the tides of her desolation.

And as she opened her eyes once the last, graceless strum of the banjo and hum of her lips drifted away, someone was there in beholden applause.

* * *

Why, oh why, did she run the other way?

That was the only thought on her mind even as a nightmare nipped at her heels. Reasonably, her instinct at the sight of the searcher was to run the opposite direction of where she saw it, but this path now led her to the halls Sammy had entered, not to the _safehouse that had explicitly been left open for this exact situation!_

God-DAMMIT, she could have easily ran around that thing instead and dove into the sanctuary. God almighty was she an idiot! Ah shit! _Shit!_

She abruptly, involuntarily leaped with the front of her body as her shoe slid backward in a trough of ink; it was over ankle-deep and spread from wall to wall, splinters of cracked wood arising like corpses of the river Styx. The splash her arms made as they failed to pick her back up was accompanied from behind by a low, wet groan. She dared to look back and found she couldn't see the thing yet; she had turned a corner and by heaven's grace held a big lead in this race. A horrible, stupid risk came to her mind. As she was overcome by panic and despair, she took it.

Instead of returning to her feet to run once more, she stayed on her knees and curled into herself as tightly as possible, jamming her ink-coated sleeve into her mouth; its taste violently jerked her spine, but her hunch demanded it.

In her peripheral, a dark smudge finally fuzzed back and forth.

The woman looked so small in this endless hallway; she stayed in a praying stance amid the unnaturally cold fluid and its thorny gravestones. She shook and whimpered, trying to hold back thrashing and screams.

 _Hrughhhh…_

A soft but throaty voice traveled some meters away to enter her heart. It almost sounded like…like a _man_. A man choking on their own saliva and tongue.

* * *

 **Drip.**

As she forced her head to twitch even a millimeter towards this, she saw that the monster had disappeared.

Her arms lowered, fists still closed but loose with the palm facing her, and her back straightened somewhat; as she looked into the dull emptiness the searcher left behind, she felt a tap on her forearm.

 **Drip.**

It was blood that formed a near-perfect circle as it fell onto her skin, birthing smaller cells of fluid over her hide like freckles of a scourge scattering from the source.

No.

No.

It was too dark to be blood.

 **Drip.**

It fell upon her head. She could feel it trickle and trace from her hairline to her chin.

 **Drip.**

It not only soaked into the shirt on her back, but it landed onto her neck and swam down the ridges of her shoulder blades.

 **Drip.**

 **Drip.**

 **Drip.**

She was besieged by streaks of black that fell from the ceiling like a thick rain. Not only was it gathering- enlarging the pool underneath her legs- but it stained the walls, the ceiling.

Brushstrokes of smoke faded all around her, an aura of watercolors void of anything but a dreadful, murky wave.

 **Drip.**

Out of the rotting wood, syrupy lines of black and white dribbled into reality; the edges slowly merged with the ink that enveloped her.

 _ **It**_ was enveloping her, the entire puddle an extension of its grasp. Whether or not it would crush her as she sat helplessly in its palm was up to chance. Somehow, she glanced up.

The woman resembled a ghost more than she did a human of flesh and blood once Bendy stood before her.

And as she gazed upon the very face that accompanied her death, its unholy smile seemed to widen, stretching towards the back of what could be considered a head. Darkness seeped little by little from its teeth to join in the pool that touched her skin.

 **Drip.**

Its open hand was almost as wide as her torso as its arm lifted before her, flecks of it falling to the floor. It then only stayed there...as Sammy had done before- it wasn't going to touch her. This one action changed every inch of insight within.

Thoughtlessly, she reached back towards the being that had saved her life, her redeemer.

And as she touched its ungloved paw, it engulfed her hand- not in a hold, but a _**swallow.**_

She remained silent with horror as she saw nothing- felt nothing- past her wrist, not even the small slits of raw muscle tissue that still ached from the ropes of her imprisonment.

And suddenly, a weight.

The sable soma of this being inched and crawled away, retreating as the demon's "elbow" pulled back and claws reformed. None of it remained upon her fingers, but something else did.

 **Smack.**

 **Smack.**

 **Smack.**

The eyeless, sneering demon gave her one last glimpse of omniscience as it began to drag its appendages from the loch where it had poured itself, detaching from the pool to latch onto the upcoming floorboards. Before she saw Bendy melt into the vertical surface of the corner ahead, she mouthed in awe:

"…T-…thank…you…"

* * *

 _Author's Note:_ This is not a necessary read, but I'm- probably obviously- referencing The Giving Tree by The Plain White T's.


	14. Fallen Down

**14- Fallen Down**

 _"For I wrote to you out of much affliction and anguish of heart and with many tears, not to cause you pain but to let you know the abundant love that I have for you."_ – 2 Corinthians 2:4

* * *

There was no life to be found, but there were signs it once dwelled here.

The bag they fought over so passionately still held no impressions of her hands in its glaze, but it was joined upon the ground by things strewn where they never should be. One of the chairs was toppled over while two or more others had crept away as if they were taken aback by the terrible scene. The banjo's tightened lines touched the earth, the barrier of strings separating its surface from the flooring. As it lay unnaturally upside down, one of its roughened, metal tuning bits laid severed from the body to rest in front of Sammy's feet.

He stared ahead as he stood alone in the room meant for many.

Empty, empty, empty.

* * *

 _Empty._

Her parted lips glowed with a gentle white as the woman remained kneeling in the trough of tar, gawking at her trembling hands and the light that emerged from them.

There were many things to consider after Bendy had left her alone with his blessing. The presence of a god swarmed her entire being and gave her what was long forgotten, leaving her motionless and thoughtless besides a single reflexive press of the thumb.

Her phone rested in between her fingers, somehow whole and functioning- somehow in her grasp once more. It retained no signs of her previous brutalizing, not of its flight through the office window nor of its drowning soon after. It was the same as it was before the dark water stole it and its master returned it to her custody.

Unfortunately, the same.

 _1%._

She awaited in sorrow for it die yet again. It was hopeless, not worth an attempt to answer the questions that agonized her; it would lead only to the sudden, cruel cessation of her search before anything of value came to be. It would have tortured her until…until…

She didn't want to think how long it could be till she came home.

She blinked, expecting it to turn black upon her return.

 _1%._

She blinked again.

 _1%._

She rested her eyes, knowing it would be gone soon.

…

 _1%._

Humans weren't the only things granted eternal life by the ink. Soon she would know this could lead only to an equally immortal ache as desire and love tugged her back and forth in warfare.

It buzzed.

* * *

Steps eventually tapped into existence and at the entrance came to be papery trousers and slick limbs, barring the panels that framed her. No one would ever know if the breath from his fake lungs released relief, amazement, or horror as Sammy saw this haunting, ethereal display his had lord left for him to find.

Before him was the woman led astray from the flock. She was letting herself wade in the overflooded chamber that linked the domain of music to the gallery of coffins and pentagrams- the place where she first met him and battled over her fate. The only sound here was the slow chant of drips from the broken pipes overhead.

She was entirely still, except for…something. As he stepped forward in wonder, he saw there was an inexplicable flame upon her lap that stretched itself around each angle to encompass them; it seized her eyes and the stars they brewed were scattering down her cheeks.

She wept. This one only ever wept, it seemed, for her own lost soul.

The celestial radiance had enchanted her; her gaze stayed unblinking even as the ink sloshed in waves over her thighs when he crept closer and closer.

He did not know if he interrupted something divine. He was drawn closer all the same.

What did Bendy do here?

…What did _she_ do here?

Their faded shadows splattered around them, trailing and surrounding Sammy in ritual; they eventually touched as he knelt by her side, unknowing, uncomprehending of what magic leaked from her palms. The tips of her hair clung to the wall, ends sticky with the blackness as she leaned against it; it spread behind her like feathers in flight.

Oh so slowly, a being resigned to the path of the fallen turned her head to look at him. She wordlessly reminded him through her spectral face the pain of the first trial Bendy required of him. She reminded him what it meant to let go.

He dared to glance down at the beam in her grasp, and there were etched words he did not yet understand.

But she knew. She knew.

After all, this was light written by her own mercy.

* * *

Once again, they marched together through the bowels of the studio, this giant beast of separation and baptism. Once again, he was a necessary tool to keep her moving. At least this time she was willing to walk; the man, however, found she stumbled so much and with such great unwillingness to keep herself upright that a simple arm lock was not enough to aid her.

Sammy was exerting his strength into a hold that came across her back to grasp her right side, a wrap that placed the back of her head under the support of his armpit and ribs. He occasionally shrugged the woman back upward into him as her occasions of weakness arose again and again.

She was still crying. To both his awe and frustration, the woman so far had shed tears more often than she spoke. In his life formerly vacant of such a basic form of expression, she must have bestowed upon him more than the equivalent of what he had missed over the years. But she had never kept it on for this long; there was always a break in the storms that brought about hasty, striking determination.

He didn't know if it was right or wrong, but had instinctively decided to seize her from the puddle of graves. There was something both glorious and deeply unsettling about the sight of her shining like a candle personified upon the old wood and the flow of spirits from the pipes.

He had no idea what it meant nor what it meant to rob her of it, and he hoped Bendy would forgive him.

Upon their meeting, at first the glow stayed in her palm and was gripped like a small book that couldn't bend to fit her muscle, but as he reached for her shoulders to free her from the ink the glimmer entirely left them with no warning- not even one last flicker or fade. They were abandoned in the darkness, and the streams on her face no longer shimmered brighter than the black that chewed their legs.

He remembered seeing letters before that moment, a flash of language. He didn't know yet they were _literal_ letters, exchanges he always believed impossible within Bendy's hold.

There were some phrases among them that barely scraped his mind within the seconds he had beheld the scripture, rolling under her touch:

 _"Please."_

 _"I can't"_

 _"I need to."_

 _"Hate."_

These were all words from her mouth that had unnerved him sometime before, materializing onto this surface she held. For some unfathomable reason, every time he saw he had questions for her was when he was frozen by fear, barely able to move and never speak. And so this fear was translated into reality by taking her away from this place, even with no chosen destination.

Unknown to him, the woman now knew the lost boy was finally in the protection of her family once more. It had given her the strength to do the unthinkable.

The kindness of the decisions that followed birthed callousness, loathing, and a hope that they wouldn't miss her. She did this so no one would be stolen from them again.

By the grace of God, she was permitted to cut her ties before her loved ones' spears of affection fished back even an inkling of the truth.

* * *

 _"12 missed calls from **Mom** "_

 **Mom (9:37 PM):** FRANKIE PICK UP!

 _"2 missed calls from **Mom** "_

 **Mom (9:40 PM):** Frankie we found him!

Me (9:41 PM): oh my god

Me (9:44 PM): really

Me (9:45 PM): oh my god

Me (9:45 PM): oh my god

 **Mom (9:45 PM):** We found him behind the grocery in the next town over

 **Mom (9:49 PM):** He's scraped up on the knees and we're taking him to the doctor but Gabby looks alright

 **Mom (9:53 PM):** He's safe

 _"3 missed calls from **Mom** "_

 **Mom (10:00 PM):** are you okay? Please pick up

Me (10:03 PM): Tell him I love him.

 **Mom (10:03 PM):** Come tell him yourself! Were at home waiting

Me (10:04 PM): I can't come home yet

 **Mom (10:04 PM):** What are you talking about?

 **Mom (10:05 PM):** Answer me

 **Mom (10:08 PM):** Frankie where are you

 **Mom: (10:08 PM):** stop being moody and come home. im sick of it. We miss you. cme see Gabby

 **Mom: (10:09 PM):** hes been asking to see you. Don't do this now when we need you. Dont do this to him.

Me (10:12 PM): I need to do some thinking, Mom. Having him gone made me realize some things. Im going to be gone for a while. Take care of him, take care of yourself mama

 **Mom (10:13 PM):** I dont understand

Me (10:28 PM): I hate you. I fucking hate you. You never understood me. Leave me alone. Don't trry to find me. Ill come back when im ready

* * *

There was a subtle, green blink in the corner of her phone as the woman's mother and many others in her old life desperately called out for her; eventually the search for the person they had known her to be would die down, but only after pushing itself to total exhaustion. Sooner or later that time would come, but until then it was a plague nipping at her wrist with a spiteful, verdant scream.

Her entire existence was crumbling in the clutch of her hand this very instant.

The cold of the ink man flushed over her temple as she leaned against his bare side. It pierced like freezing ice all the way to her heart, and yet it couldn't numb it.

She realized that by her own volition, the man with nothing was all she had left.

He didn't recognize that she was not merely too weak to continue moving on her own, that his purpose in this moment wasn't only to keep her from falling to the ground again. He didn't see that she was weeping into his embrace.

* * *

 _Author's Notes:_ Two things going on- yes, the title is an Undertale reference. And also, I'm hoping for this to be the last excruciatingly angsty chapter for a while. I know I'm heavy on that stuff, but it's all kind of led to this; and hopefully _this_ will lead to lighter, more tender interaction. I appreciate your patience as I set this up. I find it unrealistic to have them enjoy and trust each other immediately and have tried to do my best to make such a development come naturally.

Thanks for 600 views, have a happy new year!


	15. It's Familiar

**15- It's Familiar**

" _The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?"_ \- Jeremiah 17:9

* * *

Do you know what it feels like?

There's warmth that shakes your heart and tickles up your throat, placing its tender hands decisively upon your shoulders. It fills you with both uncertainty and assurance. Of what? That depends; sometimes you don't even know. And even if you don't know, it's somehow still okay. You're so scared and somehow, it's okay.

What are you supposed to feel about a feeling, though?

It becomes a winding cycle of languor, leaving you more loose-footed than before. Why is this acceptable? Everything seems wrong. Why are you so calm? No, you aren't calm at all. Why is "calm" the only word that conveys the right experience when it's so very mistaken?

The why, why, and why's take over your psyche no matter how hard you try to push them back. Attempting to answer them digs you deeper, doesn't it?

And so you're swathed in this newness, too struck to say even a word of what prowls the core of your essence, even as it pulses so forcefully that your lips quiver.

Even as the answers lay by your side, contained as lambent ghosts in a lantern. It's all right there…right there…

The power that drives your spirit cannot do the same for your voice nor your body. It is a grand display of the supremacy of your own emotion, the control it has over everything inside- a betrayal of what little it can do in the outer universe without its cooperation.

Do you believe in astrology? Even if you don't, a simple bit of research quickly shows how confusing and vague the stars seem to point with such conviction.

From the angle each of these two had, their hands were positioned to meet between them. Would you be surprised to hear they didn't dare to touch at all? It was merely an optical illusion as they remained side by side, weary visions fixed upon one another.

It was symbolic of an estrangement so close to being broken if only one of them was brave enough to reach; something as small as a twitch could have jumped the remainder of their gap.

Were the heavens aligned in perfect doom or benevolence as the disciples sat so close? "Both" is probably the nearest answer to the truth.

Creatures of light and darkness drifted into each other's spheres, the grey they crafted trickling slowly but surely until it went beyond their perceptions and began to tint their very beings.

Do you know what it's like to be lost in a feeling, with everything and nothing to be done all at once?

That's where they were, resting together in recovery after seeing the face of God.


	16. But Not Too Familiar

**16- But Not Too Familiar**

 _"'God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant in the earth, and to keep you alive by a great deliverance.'"_ \- Genesis 45:7

* * *

There's a certain sensation one gets when they move into a new apartment, house, or even hotel room. It's something that can only be described as both refreshing and anxiety-inducing, the culmination of change that often represents a larger step in a life's great journey.

It was just like that except nothing like that.

Sammy's left hand gripped the respective knee as he absorbed the stimuli of this place, finally able to think of something besides the woman that sat next to him upon the bed he led them to. He didn't know what it meant for something to be "homey," but that was this.

It had nearly everything she had requested: water, somewhere to lay down, even some food cans and pieces of clothing littered here and there. It looked lived in; he hoped that wasn't a fact. He wasn't sure if he could- or would- fight another of his inky brethren to keep this place for her. But it was all that she needed, so he walked her all the way here.

He didn't really take the time to consider doing otherwise in his panicked decision to stop whatever was going on before.

Sammy craned his neck and felt fingers from both hands duck under his mask to caress the high points of his cheeks. He didn't want to think about that again just yet; he had just spent who knows how long stewing that image round and round. The stress that accompanied its return was too much to revisit so soon.

The truth was that despite all the time he spent dragging his corpse along the stained floors, he didn't remember seeing this room before. There was very good reason for that; this was arguably the most feared, dangerous level in the whole studio.

" _I'M ALICE ANGEL!"_

Sammy decided it was for certain the most feared, dangerous level in the whole studio.

So why here then? Again, it had everything she wanted. He had just enough awareness of her humanity to accept that she couldn't reside permanently in the kingdom Bendy permitted him to maintain, to use so Sammy may properly show his great reverence for his lord. No matter how deeply he wished to stay there forever, even before the woman arrived it had been necessary to make rounds about the halls for some reason or another.

As he released a sigh, the musician felt yearning for his instruments, having never voluntarily left them for quite this long. Maybe he'd bring in his favorite banjo next time-

There were two distinct troubles that pinched at him with this idea. The previous sight of his most prized possession damaged and still laying upon the ground was one; it wasn't the worst, considering he recalled being able to reattach the tuning bits before. It was much more terrible to realize that without debate, he had presumed he'd be staying with the woman in this room.

Even in his escape from concepts of trepidation, others had appeared to take their place.

And on queue came yet another.

Sammy both felt and heard his voice's uncontrolled reply, a scream that came out as a soft whisper. His knuckles clenched until his fingers totally curled as if trying to poke holes through the material of his pants.

As they sat side by side on the gurney, she had finally fallen asleep for the first time since they met. The candles couldn't allow the sight of her dull head on his glistening hide to be concealed.

His shoulders raised heavily a handful of times, but not with the weight of his companion. He didn't know what to do and couldn't decide how he felt about this; it was such a foreign concept for him to be this close to someone else let alone be _touched_. Somehow it was different from when they touched out of necessity. Now that it was a contact without obligation, he was entirely lost, unable to find a proper response. It didn't come to him that maybe this was a fear born from an entire lifetime without human tenderness, without someone equal to him that would have such trust as to dictate he guard their unconscious body.

After swimming through leagues of thoughts with no words, Sammy gradually shifted his head towards the pressure against his right side. With the horror and alarm of her arrival retreating just for a moment like the moon tugs away the waves, he was overcome by the details of mortality she carried with her. Skin was now pulled over her eyes, light-colored wisps pointing outward from the bottom that caught in the glow of the candles. He didn't have eyelashes- no one did- and so it struck him with intensity.

As he stared at her face, he saw streaks, smudges, and dots all over; it made him realize _being_ ink was very different than _being surrounded_ by ink. Sammy noticed some of the dots were…brown? Brown wasn't an uncommon sight here, but finding it smeared onto a surface was entirely unheard of.

Unknowing she walked in with those marks, he had to shove aside the urge to wipe them off her jaw. The terror of him being the one to initiate touch had been fast instilled in that past moment where he tried to comfort her in the company of his instruments. Even though it was followed by an understanding that it was disgust over his actions, he couldn't _not_ believe that his very existence didn't sicken her as well. Not even her choice back then to grasp his hand had erased this conviction.

And so he resigned himself, painstakingly slow in his leaning onto the wall behind them as to not disturb her, still encased by the many haunting questions that soaked through the wood and saturated their home.

Maybe it was entirely by accident, but she had finally filled the gap between them.


	17. But Not Too Unfamiliar

**17- But Not Too Unfamiliar**

" _I lay down and slept; I woke again, for the Lord sustained me."_ – Psalm 3:5

* * *

A chill had seeped into her head and washed over her like a blanket of frost. At first she was frightened, for when she opened her eyes they saw only black. But then a yellow blush started to skulk in front of her, creating shapes out of shade. One of these glimmering, dark planes in her view started to move, and she felt it was moving her as well.

There was a small flame in the room that reminded her of his humanity.

Bloom, bend, wither.

* * *

A mess of items were spread in a half circle almost ritualistically on the floor in front of her crossed legs. It was a miracle- a surreal endowment for her homesick heart- and yet it simply made her compress her lips.

There were things in her backpack she didn't remember putting in there, some she _definitely_ didn't put in there, and many that had small splotches of wet ink resting on their surfaces.

Her temples started to ache from furrowing her brow so much.

Even though the contents of this bag were once a pipedream she longed so much for, having them before her now merely left her exhausted; it compelled her to lift herself from the floor to be liberated of this strain, at least for a moment.

As she did, the woman saw someone watch her from across the room. Or well, at least his "face" was doing that.

Sammy was seated upon the gurney, inclined against the wall; he had been since she found herself leaning into his side. Her face was probably still red, honestly; such a thing was never her intention, something woven from the fibers of physical and emotional weakness.

A grimace formed as she again felt the pains of her last contact with her family, and she forced herself to push it aside once more.

Even though she couldn't blame herself for being that despondent, the woman never intended for him to be a part of it, even after beholding the ink demon itself and subsequently removing everyone of her old life. Not even something so drastic, so disturbing. And so, she felt remorse rather than relief to find herself next to him as she was.

Thankfully though, he…didn't seem to notice? The man hadn't moved nor spoken, even when she retracted her touch. Was he asleep, too? She had briefly considered doing something like waving her hand over his eyes-…mask. Instead, she left him be, accepting either his stare or his repose. For some reason she didn't feel like experimenting, and well, she still didn't even after all this time awake only made the mystery more potent.

She noticed the closed door only a few feet ahead of her, seeming to plead she open it.

And here came a conflict. She very much did not want to go somewhere she didn't recognize. Hell, she didn't want to go _anywhere_. Even though she remembered walking through this door to enter this small- er, bedroom-? …her weariness dimmed the memory of what came just before it. All that remained was walking, ink, a wall, and then walking again until her legs could finally, safely give way.

So of course, someone with enough knowledge to accept she couldn't handle this world alone would fear doing exactly that. Nothing lay ahead besides what she didn't know.

But then there was Sammy. It wasn't out of curiosity that she finally opened her bag, actually; it was born from a long, uncomfortable era of silence. She didn't have the strength or bravery to speak to him- not after all that had happened- and so she busied herself with what was at her disposal. And now that was done, leaving her with the unbearable loudness of her thoughts. She gazed at the objects of the room one more time, including the ones that weren't hers.

 _Tick tick tick tick tick tick!_

Overhead, a cartoonish clock watched her pensively as it beat alongside her heart, or rather her beat caught up to its. The room sheltered many things here: there was a chest she didn't dare to open, a large metal gear she didn't dare to touch, and a tall shelf she didn't dare to reach.

She looked down at her belongings as they lay in an untidy yet organized manner where she sat before; they were all so eerie to look at in the candlelight, drops of black sticking out so sharply upon them like portals to another world. It caused her shoulders to raise with unease.

The woman watched Sammy intently as she opened the door and stepped out, but he did nothing to stop her.

* * *

He knew time had passed. He didn't know how much, but evidently enough to change his surroundings.

This had…happened before. Numerously. Sammy would often fade in and out of consciousness as he lived his sunless days amid the studio. Sometimes he'd be back where he last recalled- as he was now- and sometimes he'd stop in his steps, realizing he was walking the halls. Sometimes he was running. He'd look behind and nothing was there.

Sometimes in between there were visions, apparitions that couldn't be determined to be real or not. Bendy smiling upon him; watching his lord's shadow line his body until he felt nothing; silhouettes of someone that bellowed at him with all their being. Like a dream, there was only enough remaining of these events to itch the back of his mind thereafter.

The sight before him now was so unusual that he wondered if it was yet another of these visions.

Many objects were lined across the floor ahead. He…didn't recognize any of them. He didn't know where they came from-

The bag was gaping upon the floor, its insides stained with such a bright color that he shook his head backward, almost excruciatingly. Although so very unsure of himself, Sammy pushed his palms against the mattress of the gurney to drop himself to the floor so he may investigate.

And just at this moment his heart began to race, for he realized the weight that had strapped him to the bed was gone.


	18. Creature Comforts

**18- Creature Comforts**

" _But exhort one another every day, as long as it is called 'today,' that none of you may be hardened by the deceitfulness of sin."_ – Hebrews 3:13

* * *

"Why the fuck is there service down here, anyway?!"

It was a mutter that came out so spitefully and so high pitched that it seemed comedic, but it was a legitimate question. It was also of course because she habitually tortured herself, even after the sheer number of unread messages turned her stomach again and again.

Fortunately, they seemed to die down, what must have been a total of a hundred-so messages from her loved ones eventually trickling into…nothing. So her antagonization had worked, and this is what "bittersweet" meant. How long had she been asleep to allow this to happen? She glanced to a corner of the room pensively. How long had she sat in that ink, stapled to the floor by her tears until Sammy took her away?

In such an ocean of heartache and unadulterated shock, her thoughts about that moment didn't resurface until she left Sammy behind on the bed. She didn't recall a terrible amount of detail, but she remembered him just…staring. He knelt to her level and when she finally saw him, it was a terrible connection between her eyes and the paint over his face. Wordlessly, he lifted her out of the pool previously made thicker and thicker by a…a… _ **thing**_ _…_ and they left it behind. If he had said anything she wouldn't have had the ability to reply, and yet she didn't like the way his silence felt. That same sentiment remained upon the bed and refused to leave, even as she cast him out of her sight.

There was an emotion about him she couldn't place, and it made her unsure how to feel herself. This seemed to be the trend, regretfully.

The inquiries about time itself, however, were at least plausible to answer if not for one incredibly unsettling change in her phone. The muscles of her cheeks tightened and wrinkled in a frown.

It no longer told time.

The timestamps of old messages remained the same. Actually, so were the ones from right after- oh gosh was it _really…?_ \- "Bendy" gave it back to her. But…-

Holding her breath and closing her eyes until she scrolled past the bulk of the rejection, pleas, and anger, she rechecked the timestamp of her last messages to her mom and found that it displayed the hour and minute…but nothing else. All messages before what was presumably the moment her phone fell in the ink were normal; they displayed any measurement from the minute to the year. Her thumb tapped the home button.

No, the analog clock still didn't work. It was just a blank grey box against an otherwise unremarkable background. She didn't dare test it by messaging someone again, but she didn't seem to have any sign of current time at all, not even hour or minute like before. It was like its passage slowed or just…crumbled and decayed, like it was slowly eaten by the liquid abyss. She wished she could stop staring; her eyes were so sore from doing so. Quietly and abruptly, her heart rumbled up her neck so she may hear her own desires.

"You know what?"

She opened a gaming app, green light kissing dead eyes and a flat mouth.

"Fuck it." Might as well get her use out of it if she really couldn't take herself away from the thing causing her pain.

Just like many times before in her life, distracting herself couldn't numb the pain, but at least it kept the voices of unspeakable anxiety from getting louder and louder.

"People made out of ink that I'm trapped with forever. Ah shit. Ah dang."

Sarcasm couldn't save her now either, her pulse only quickening as she failed to overlook the troubles of existence.

* * *

Clothes.

Clothes rested at the end of the short corridor- a pair of overalls like his and then what appeared to be short pants with a childish design on them. They were boxers, but that wasn't a word in his vocabulary yet. They were decorations that had remained since whoever was here last- maybe even before them- but it still brought him pause.

Sammy didn't notice someone in the next room spot him standing in front of the garments, he being swallowed up in his own worry and fascination that his search necessitated a trail back to the first doorway he passed, not the one she waited for him in.

More clothes.

More clothes were hung in this strange space of tall squares and long glass.

This room scared him. It was enticing, oh so enticing, but it was a path of misery- a firewalk to things of value.

He couldn't see himself in the mirrors yet; he didn't want to. But he could see in two places that this surely was her cloak in front of him.

Oh no…oh no…

…He had to.

Sammy's foot scraped the floor, hardly lifting, as he made his way straight towards the cloth hung over the bathroom stall. Even as he reached up and held its limp softness in his grasp- so _unusual_ -…the fear over what this object could mean was corroded by the one lurking by his side, gnawing into his shoulder from a distance.

Should he look? Was he…obligated to look? Alas, that decision was made for him by the morbid instinct of a past life.

Dripping. Dripping. He was dripping. A huddled pile of black hardly clothed himself by yellowing paper and scratched wood.

His cursed, horrible fingers squeezed the cloak tighter in front of his unspeakable flesh.

A sound scraped his throat. What was it? He didn't know, not what it said- if anything- nor how loud it was.

It brought her to him all the same.

* * *

"Woah, hey!"

So fortuitously, this was enough to claw his gaze away from the beast that enraptured him. Oh so barely, his nightmare still stood by his side, but at least like always it was now only in the back of his mind. Having it in front of him again was…-

The woman saw him sway side by side like he was about to fall in dizziness. With each swing a drop or two scaled down his collarbone.

"…You okay?"

His head raised up and down, but it was more likely to be a look rather than a nod. Oh boy.

The woman before him stopped leaning against the doorframe, having made her decision in this oh so bizarre, unsettling scene.

"…Come on."

She threw her hand from a flat position between them to over her shoulder, hoping it would be enough to take him from his place. She _could_ touch him, but a sink of her heart became a reminder that it would be much too soon. It wouldn't feel right after what she just did.

There was a strange nostalgia as he came forward to her, as she stepped out of the hole in the wall to watch him exit; there was a certain- again unidentifiable- feeling in her chest as she saw him clutch her hoodie in his fingers and into his breast like she would with a stuffed animal.

Oh gosh, she missed Love-a-Lot. Wait, she was an adult!

…Wait again, who gives a shit? _Him?_

Nerves up and down her neck tingled with longing, remembering the sensation of holding something soft to her chest. It was like looking at herself…a really tall, slimy version of herself. Admittedly, her first reaction to seeing Sammy hold her disgusting hoodie was that _it was still hers!_

Even though she had discarded it along with every liquid that crusted its surface like tattoos detailing a hero's journey- hers of horror-, it would always be against human nature to see someone hold one's own possessions with such intimacy.

He must have noticed this.

The corners of her lips pulled back as they stood in the corridor, her shirt dangling over the cup of his hands in an offering. She gazed down at it, seeing it was infected with black and its mahogany deepened here and there with her own fluids; then she gazed up at him without moving her head, pupils touching the line of her eyelids.

She had changed into her other shirt after all; it didn't cover her arms quite as nicely, but a few moments of cold were better than carrying _that smell_. Even if she had to duck back in the room where she left him behind, it was worth it.

…Did she really still want it?

What was the right word for how the man with no face looked in front of her like this, the emotion he conveyed even without one?

There was another bit of unescapable human nature that washed over her skin in lament- empathy.

"You…you need it-… _more_ …" she stated with a squint. There were shallow depths to this kindness; it housed pity and mystification, and that was more audible than the generosity she had in this choice.

The cartoon head tilted, seeming unsure. Hesitantly, she was compelled to reach up to him and slowly pat her hoodie in goodbye affirmingly, trying to ignore the way it felt under her fingertips.

"…Ah," he exhaled quietly.

Maybe Sammy's actions had been misinterpreted, because he still seemed unsure. Maybe he didn't realize how he looked holding it? Well, at least this was better than whatever he was doing before; that sight led to a question: Was he always like this?

…Oh boy.

"I…"

Sammy's mask lay almost horizontally downward at the crusty fabric in his hands. He was overcome by…whatever that was earlier in the bathroom. She became impatient.

"Hm?" The woman could sense he had a thought; soon she would deliberate if she regretted drawing it out into the open.

"Forgive me," he started in an airy sigh, "It's been…so long since I've seen one of these garments," he finished wistfully. Such a simple admission filled her to the brim with a newfound understanding, of an overwhelming realization. He hardly ever saw a _shirt._

" _He really DOES need it more..."_ was what echoed through her body as she gestured him to the next room; there was no way to cease watching the way he stared at a small fade of color draping over his arms, like a treasure unburied in this black and white world. And then came the weight of recognizing this was the world was now hers, no shirts and all.

Why was it that their only distraction from agony was more agony?


	19. In the Presence of Monsters

**19- In the Presence of Monsters**

" _Show hospitality to one another without grumbling."_ – 1 Peter 4:9

* * *

It was so strange how she was playing the role of hostess in this world Sammy led her to.

They sat across each other at the small table, each with a small cup of water in front of them. God knows how relieved she was earlier to find that at least _one_ of the three faucets in the bathroom supplied clean water, at least by purely visual standards. However, it was not a shared delight- sort of like offering a hamburger to a vegetarian, it seemed, because he hadn't touched it once.

" _You require things I don't; I recall that much."_

At the time this fact was revealed, the exhaustion of arguing and- well- entirely giving up to her fate had whisked away critical thinking. But now? She started to see it. Even as his head bobbed slightly up and down so humanly as he stared at the table, observing its many chips and scratches, he still held his glossy form. Sammy was a man- she assumed by now with only slight doubt- but to say he was fully so would mock his existence.

They both seemed content to be silent, even as the discomfort of it all started to pile with a weight capable of breaking the table between them. And so she resumed what she was doing before, a flat pattern of roses rising to face her companion- the back panel of an opening into the rest of the universe.

There was a change here. She glanced up from her phone once she saw in her peripheral that he sharply raised his whole body upward. Like a pulley, it made her heart sink.

"Sammy?"

She didn't know what to say. He just seemed…eternally anxious, agonized; she selfishly wished it didn't make her feel the same way. Heck, saying his name- something he didn't know until he met her- probably made it worse. Her phone went face down on the table, the window of light covered by wooden drapes.

He was standing up now, limbs outstretched as if…as if there was something in the room with them. She spun around to try to see it, but it was just them. It took her a full minute of looking wall to wall to realize the thing clawing at him must be within rather than around them.

She had panic attacks before herself, and one almost overcame her then with the wisdom that her experience gave no valid proficiency in helping another.

Just as she began to approach, hands in front of her but unsure what she'd even do with them, she saw he was looking down at the table. Maybe something was with them after all.

* * *

"My sheep…!"

He regressed in his vernacular, overcome with the memories and sensations of seeing her bathed in luminescence the last time he left her alone. …That…thing. That thing was there before, and it was the source of that capturing radiance.

The knot in his chest was indescribable seeing her reach over to pick it up; it didn't lift with her gentle consolation.

"Sammy, Sammy…it's okay." She turned the thing to face him; she did her best to do so slowly, and so seeing him flinch in response was heart-wrenching. She tried to ignore how the line between calming him for her own sake and truly for his sake was beginning to blur, how she did feel so sorry for him.

"…It's okay," she insisted.

It was a rectangle, smooth like glass and black like the pipes sewn through the maze of halls. There was a ridge around it where she gripped the thing in her fingers. It faced him like it had faced her, and so he shrunk back, expecting to be taken by the light as she had been before.

…But nothing came.

It was almost funny how quickly he dipped his head down to inspect it, bent at the stomach and craning his neck so his mask was parallel with its black wall. Finally, some words:

"What…is this? What did it do to you?" A voice that shook with terror and amazement.

She scoffed. "What?!"

His chin tilted upward to look at her, but the angle was sharp enough that she could see his mouth through the hole of his mask, how it gaped and quivered. "It…enveloped you, my sheep. I saw…I saw…"

For once he didn't have words to describe the unnatural visions the studio. Little did he know that it was because it was not of the studio at all, but she started to grasp that in his place.

* * *

It was a good call to save the long-winded explanation for later. Ah, how foolish she was to assume he wouldn't at _least_ be inquisitive about a smartphone in a world that seemed like it was frozen in place long past, that in the darkness of the halls it looked like an angel glowing in her hands. Of course, her first reaction- the one he saw- was to notice how ridiculous such a belief was, but the more she thought…the more it made sense for him to feel that way.

It made her feel guilty. This was the emotion left with her after assuring him that her phone was indeed safe, letting him hold it in his hands to inspect- oh so grateful none of him seemed to smear through the cracks.

"Is it…under your control?" he asked in wonder without lifting his mask to face her, still very much enraptured with the object.

"Uh-…" She didn't really know how to react when you put it like _that_. "-I suppose you could say that."

Sammy finally looked her in the eye; she could almost sense him blink quizzically- if he could at all. And then, right in front of her, he pinched a corner of the phone to dangle it between the tips of his thumb and index finger. That made her frown in worry, but when he started to lightly toss it in the air was certainly much worse to watch.

"HEY!"

He was so startled that his catch faltered, and his arms swung fruitlessly as a _clunk!_ came from their feet. The forearms that failed their purpose stayed still in front of him, crossed, and his waist stayed hunched towards the ground. His head, however, began to lift with an agonizingly slow curve; Sammy stared at her in total silence.

Now it was her turn to recoil back, suddenly remembering who this was in front of her. Sure, maybe things had gotten better- that kind of happens when you have no one else- but she still very much remembered the animosity; she was so hypnotized in flashbacks of the past day or two that she didn't perceive what he was doing until it was in front of her nose.

"I am…deeply sorry, my friend. Forgive my childishness," he murmured quietly, seeming to ache with embarrassment. The phone delicately lay onto his palms as he cradled it momentarily and then hesitantly offered it to her. She'd be lying if she tried to say the way he held her stuff was totally normal.

"It's…it's fine," the woman said in a low voice as she took her pink phone back, "I overreacted for sure. No- no worries." They both were so taken aback by the flinch of their hands touching once again that neither of them noticed it was a shared experience.

Awkward yet again, as seemed to be their way. The woman decided it was her responsibility in this particular situation, as she was the most recent aggressor; she exhaled, lips slightly puckered with reluctance. Maybe it wasn't the best time, but they finally appeared to have an opportunity for some long-awaited discussion.

"Let's-…let's sit down, Sammy." She pulled her lower lip in between her rows of teeth in contemplation briefly before addressing a lingering problem. "Is it alright that I call you 'Sammy,' by the way?"

He didn't say anything, but his body language was once again mastering the art of communication without conscious attempt, titling slightly downward in a clear admission: he wasn't sure. Honestly, she couldn't blame him.

"You, uh, can decide in the future. I'm guessing its all-…it's all a lot right now- a lot to think about." There was temptation to include that she was experiencing the exact same thing, plausibly worse. But for sure, Sammy was fucked up in every way imaginable; the same vindictive sentiment of her tough times here reminded her that he surely had them too…partially if not fully because of her as of late.

Relief soaked her skin when he finally nodded, saying in a haunted drawl in that icy voice of his, "I have experienced…much revelation since we've met."

The man of shadow looked down at his arms. He was always fixated on them from the second they met. At first it was perplexing to her- a sign of instability- but now…it seemed to be an action of remorse. Sammy had to recognize his monstrous nature day after day, and so he would never cease to be enraptured by this gruesome reality. The presence of flesh and blood tore him apart, extinguishing the patience he maintained for years of merely waiting for his salvation- transmuting his distress at her sight into unbearable yearning.

The woman was so unsure now of his nature and origins, but at least now there might be a reason the bathroom mirrors seemed to show him a ghost. He continued before she could ascend fully into the revelation of what his body did to him.

"Time may be the only remedy Bendy will grant his prophet, no matter what works I perform in his name."

The woman nodded too in agreement, although the mention of his "lord" was enough the curdle alleviation into dismay.

Finally, they once again sat across each other, not with the readiness but the awareness of the demons they had to face.

" _Time and your assistance,"_ he didn't risk adding as she rested her hand on the table; it was a casual, unthinking gesture that seemed to beckon him… He didn't know what for.

How surprised was he to find himself desiring it all the same, how ghastly he felt as he allowed it refuge within his soul.


	20. Millennia

**20- Millennia**

" _I stretch out my hands to you; my soul thirsts for you like a parched land."_ \- Psalm 143:6

* * *

" _I…I don't remember…"_

"… _I don't know."_

"…"

These were the basic iterations of Sammy's only three answers for a very long while. Why was "Sammy Lawrence" written all over the music department? Why didn't he recognize it as his name before? And most terribly, who did he used to be? …and so on. It seemed maybe she had more intuition of his identity than he, until-

"What…happened to you?"

At this point, it seemed like a failing interview, a list that had to keep going on and on even if they both suffered. This question felt so…rude; even though it was the one that directly impacted her the most- that her life was surrounded by the mysteries of the ink- it seemed cruel to say. She regretted doing so despite how much it meant to her. It wasn't surprising when the tall figure on the other side of the table was utterly wordless once again, but it formed a great drop in her stomach to see his body was speaking for him.

It was like when she first called him by his name; he started shaking and his shoulders lurched towards the sides of his head. She was just about to apologize- assuming he was in great distress from not being able to answer- when he began to utter:

"The ink…it…took us. We had no choice."

One hand moved to hold his tired head while the other rested on the table to show him its wrist. The way he slumped was an unwritten story of pain, indescribable pain- a life of nothing but the darkness around them. Even as this new position showed the profile of her companion once again, she couldn't see any features beyond his moving lips- and that barely so.

"It…" She was beside herself trying to decipher his riddle. "It-… _took_ you?" She leaned over the table in astonishment. "You…were you…" She swallowed so she could spit out the incredible. "…human?"

The wisp of vision she had of his face was enough to show his swift displeasure, his gritting teeth. It scared her all the same, but he was holding back the hottest of his fury at her ignorance.

" _Yes._ "

Even though she suspected as much, its confirmation was enough to render her limp, sloping back into her chair breathlessly.

Then, as she had dreaded before, he began to squeeze the fingers near his mask into a fist, shakes of trauma turning into that of incense. He tried to remember, he tried, but all he saw was-

 **Ink. Ink. Ink. Ink. Ink. Ink. Ink. Ink. Ink. Ink. Ink. Ink.**

A groan in agony that vibrated from his chest.

A touch on his hand.

"…That's…that's enough for now." It'd be a fib to say she wasn't utterly exhausted herself in this moment, and so she hoped her grip would remind him there was a world outside of memory…no matter how his skin felt. It lingered with her how little she cared in this moment despite knowing what he was made of. She blinked down at their hands and exhaled.

"Let's give you a break from all this. I shouldn't have pushed you."

Sammy breathed in sharply as he emerged to the surface of reality; the sliver of his face disappeared, replaced by the false one of his master so he may have the power to look at her as she possessed him.

Touch. Touch. Touch.

Even though he began to obsess with it- how the idea of doing so made him foolishly hope her blood could transfuse through his fingers and once again beat this old heart- despite that or maybe even because of how deeply that rooted through his veins…-

He had abrasively retracted his hand with a backward wobble of his head- a total denial of all temptation. The only reward was a voice that pierced his chest and pinned him to the chair at his back, leaving him paralyzed.

"I'm…I'm sorry."

He once again could only stare at his flesh as he strangled his own wrist, watching her own slither out of sight in the window of his forearms. This was the last thing he saw before ink washed over his eyes and blurred her into blackness.

Not knowing what else to do, she left him to drown.

* * *

Knees were pulled towards her stomach; it stung so bad. She was once again in the bedroom and once again had left him alone. The conflict boiled in her chest, wondering if trying to comfort him was wrong, if leaving him alone was wrong, or both simultaneously.

Of course, it hurt her too to be denied the companionship she so desperately wanted to have again, even if it was with him _._ Even though he…oh gosh.

There was such an incredible dissonance in her sudden judgement, seeing that the true misdeed he had purposely done- that grotesque confession of _sacrificing her_ \- was what he'd been trying to make up for. She winced as this bit into her; she shouldn't- she shouldn't forget he did that, but she kept pretending that he hadn't poured himself out to her in the music hall, confessing he was wrong about his-…life.

What must have been his entire known life. He left everything he had…so he could apologize to the person he hurt. It didn't absolve him of his sins to her, of course, but he did the right thing from then forward. Her actions stung him because she was still stinging.

Something sounded down the hall. She listened, then nothing more. All it did was stop her heart for a second, leading to realization that something needed to be done. She couldn't live in agony like this.

As she did in the orchestra room, she was resigned to pick herself up and journey for diversion. Sure, the trouble was that she had stared at the items in this room for a long time, but this was what she was driven to do to save herself. Something stood out in the background…something she didn't notice before.

Time seemed to skip because suddenly it was in her hand, smiling up at the giantess.

"Hey li'l dude," a hoarse but earnest greeting came from her throat. Agonizingly, she forced herself to smile at the Bendy toy; at first it was entirely ingenuine- a "fake-it-till-you-make-it" tactic that eventually worked, and soon the smile bubbled into soft laughter. She finally shed a single tear when its wrinkle reached her eyes.

A shameful desire crept to her heart. She looked side to side as if there was something to hide, and then a gaze fell upon the smooth, black plush. It was the visage of the beings that haunted her, the ones that always watched, the ones that were her comrades. Her grin faded as she pressed the toy into her chest, trying to ignore the irony of it, trying to ignore that it wasn't a person.

She didn't look well enough because the prophet was standing there.

* * *

The visions met again were indescribable. He knew it was something, because when he came to he felt colder than ever before. It took much effort to pick himself from the chair, as if he'd been running for hours. Unknown to him, it was probably only a minute since she left-

Since she left.

Gone yet again, and he didn't know what to do about it. He felt like tearing himself apart, it was so frustrating. Why was he like this?! _Why?!_

"Oh, ink demon…" he muttered, the hands leaning onto the table, curling their fingers, "Your shepherd can't even care for one of your flock…"

Just ahead of his clenched fists sat the treasure of the fallen. Inspiration sparked through his extremities as he reached to hold the phone within his hands.

Purpose…in this eon of uncertainty, maybe he still had a purpose…

And so, he could never forget how black washed over him, obscuring the sights that had captured his soul forever and locked them away. He could never forget, but it was pushed away to make a path towards her.

That brought them to the present moment, as the man approached with new resolve.

"'Dude?'"

Sammy saw her body tighten in surprise. Even though it was to be expected, it was still disappointing. Somehow, he had hoped that all would be miraculously well when he came back to her. Likewise, the woman hadn't anticipated they'd meet together so soon after what she did; it was unclear if his quick return was an omen of healing or further troubles. Fortunately, her predisposition to share and describe overcame the heartache.

In their desperation, the two accepted curiosity over apology. It was a welcome beginning to conversation…much needed contact, like warriors in combat comprehending their fight was for naught only after wounds started to gape.

"Oh, Sa-…" The name was halted before it emerged fully; it took a second for her to reframe her speech. She noticed the way he quoted her, the perplexity in his voice. Ah, well…she _was_ strange after all.

A nose slipped past the mass of hair as the oily being faced her back, surprised she had the strength to look at him so soon. It gave him…pleasure. Was that it? As it blended with puzzlement, he wasn't sure what he felt. That word he caught- it was recognizable, but not one that came with a meaning. That made it an easy place to start over their interaction. He saw her profile dip down to look at something towards her ribs.

The woman then realized how bizarre her use of language must be. She had a hunch it wasn't a word he was exposed to, at least in this form.

"It's uh…a familiar and casual term for 'person.'" To both of their reliefs, when the turn of her body completed it revealed the genuine smile had returned. Sure, it was small, accompanied by raw sadness, but it was there and granted them peace.

At least for that second.

"I use it- uh- pretty liberally," she quickly added with an embarrassed smirk. In good humor, she pointed at the doll she held to her chest, who she deemed as definitely not a "person." Almost in silliness, its head dipped down to show Sammy its own grin as well- perfect comedic timing. Ease radiated from the man at this sight; she noticed a small tilt and forward lurch of the head. So unfortunately, she had the comfort and encouragement to keep talking.

"Lots of my friends do, too, so I guess it's just how I talk now!" She shrugged, eyelids tightening with the rise in her cheeks. "Millennial speech and all that." A short chuckle emerged with the last word as if to dismiss her own ridiculousness.

…

"Mill…" he began slowly, "…en all?" He tilted his head further, still enveloped in the light mood. It was clear in his tone that he was confused, however.

She rolled her eyes not in exasperation but thought. She didn't stop to ponder why this word needed to be explained; she simply desired to do so.

"It's like-," she began in a high pitch, the word "like" drawn out to procrastinate until the proper idea was captured. "It's like, a word for kids born between 1990 and 1999, I think."

Dead. Silence. Everything they had happily accepted fled their presence, like birds sensing the first chills of winter. Nothing about him changed in the worst way possible. He didn't make a noise; he didn't move. But she saw, and she did those things for him as the pain in her stomach returned. The doll would have fallen to the floor if her natural state wasn't a tender grip of the hand.

"Sammy?" No one cared she said his name. The great consequence of this moment quaked her voice, overwhelmed her with abrupt wisdom. "How long have you been here?"

And they were suddenly too tired to say anything else, questions circling the air like clouds of smoke that choked their words. Even if they both didn't know, _they knew._ Then in unspoken unity, they decided it was too much.

Their hearts sank together- one with the realization that time existed outside of the studio while the other comprehending time had stopped. It was a sickening truth all too heavy to bear, and so two heads hung down with this burden. With his height, the man ended up looking down upon her and could directly observe her pain sheltering under his own.

He was the one that decided to hold her hand this time, selfishly ignoring what she must have endured to have his horrible body contact hers. It was still such a terrible instinct, but it was all he had, the only thing left in him…so it was done. In his other hand was the remnant of heaven- a cellphone to her- that had come to remind them of the hell they wandered. In her own second palm, the dusty sneer of Bendy looked down upon his gift to her, approving of his prophet's obedient return.

This moment needed to pass…Please let it pass…

Unbelievably, he felt her press into his palm as she began to cry. Her voice crawled through the walls and encased them, and he understood she might as well be crying for the both of them. She accepted then in this epoch of afflictions that even though he had much to make up for, his apologies were certainly true. Thus was the beginning of reconciliation, of true middle ground.

"Please don't let go," someone whispered.


	21. Shape, Sound, and Sincerity

**21- Shape, Sound, and Sincerity**

 _"You are my hiding place; You preserve me from trouble; You surround me with songs of deliverance_." - Psalm 32:7

* * *

You get in a car accident. Metal and wire and glass everywhere- horrible, horrific, terrible, terrifying. _Alone._ Let's assume you're lucky enough to make it out physically unscathed, not even a cut; you'll still never forget how it makes you feel. There's a chance every time you get behind the wheel again, pass by the spot on the highway where your car split the guard rail in two, or even if you see a car- there's a roll of the dice how tight your chest will clench this time and how much your heart physically aches like the time it happened. Once again, the car is spinning and the same debris from before flies into your face in hopes of destroying you, onslaughts of the phantom of your past.

Swirling in anxiety, drowning in doubt. Someone can only take it for so long. There's only so many times someone can live through it over and over again, and the first time alone could have killed you. This is the time where beings find how powerful they truly are. This is when they find their souls- their joys, their fears, their traits, their wounds.

There's only so long before you become human again.

* * *

The water traced down her fingers after it was thrown gently to her skin. The sound it made echoed in the porcelain, staining the old yellow basin with a trickle of black among the otherwise clear liquid. Its presence forced a sigh of dismay, beridding her of the consolations of truly clean drinking water. As the layer of dust and ink the studio paintonto her washed away little by little, Sammy saw there were some things that wouldn't abandon her. The folds under her eyes remained darkened, and a row of brown dots lined from her jaw to her forehead. She was a constellation of heavens he hadn't the blessing to see…

…Yet. Looking upon her was a reminder that dreams do come true, and they certainly will with Bendy's gracious hand.

The man took great care standing next to the mirror rather than in front of it; maybe he was vulnerable in her full view, unable to hide how carefully he watched, but it was preferred over the slashing stare of his own melting body before him if he had stood behind her instead. He uncrossed his arms as she lifted her head to breathe in once more, and suddenly black fingers were obstructing his view.

Sammy hadn't touched her yet, thankfully, before he discovered what he was doing. As the back of his hand obstructed the dots on her face and their accompanying eye, the other eye looked upon him. She was too tired, too numb to flinch yet again, but the man eventually pulled back all the same. Even in her acceptance of him- of his upsetting existence, his unholy form- he still felt unsuited to touch her again, at least not so soon.

"You…you have some left on your face, my friend," was his excuse. A true one, but it was an excuse.

After a second of blank silence, the woman minutely shifted her head to look in the mirror again. It was clear now there were still definitely stains left, and to his concern they didn't fuzz a bit when she smoothed her fingertips over them. Shoulders lifted and dropped with a blink, and she somehow looked more tired than before.

"I think I got everything I can, Sammy." He didn't blame her in this moment for some reason, for her casual reference to him by a name he hardly knew. It brought things upon him- things that were certainly his- and so came the admission of his ownership of a "Sammy." How truly terrible was it that he knew it? The answer was "very," of course, but as the woman's look rested upon him again, it somehow drowned in the deafening noise her mortality blared around him. How could such a solemn face make him feel…so, so much?

"Did you hear me, Sammy?"

A soft "ah" came from his throat in surprise, awakening him from the fantasy she was, the dream of being human so close in his grasp. "…Yes," the man managed to say, "…My apologies."

Her shoulders created a slope as one shrugged and the other drooped, leaving the bottom of her neck grazing the lifted side. He could have imagined it- it could have simply been her supple cheek pushing the rest of her face as her shoulder touched it- but a corner of her mouth lifted at him.

"It's okay."

It was the quietest voice that had ever emerged from the woman since they met. It was unsettling, and yet-…

Her smile widened and reached her eyes.

-…and yet so relieving.

"Let's go sit down, Sammy." That name again. That name.

She slipped out the doorway ahead, and he obediently followed.

His name…his name…

* * *

Realization came upon him as she led him to the living room yet again. Sammy saw the woman standing full height a fair distance ahead of him. Hands fell on her round hips and the flesh underneath easily gave way, gentle and weak to the pressure of her fingers. A line curved around her neck as it turned to look behind at him. A word…there was a word for this…What was it?

His head bobbed up and down over her before unburying lost knowledge of the world above. "You're…fat."

She laughed. She outright laughed, the entirety of her body bouncing with her voice, an amplifier of emotion that confirmed his statement. It was so much different than just a second ago; she changed so fast before his eyes simply by stating observations. How absurd.

"That's-…" the woman began before being interrupted by one last chuckle, "-that's a funny thing to say out of the blue!" Almost in agreement- maybe to express agreement- she gently placed a hand on her stomach. "Yeah, I am." There was one last pulse of a grin before it shrunk to a small smile for good. She still seemed so exhausted, but at least she wasn't quite so still. It didn't seem to suit the nature of such an easily moved body, he surmised as he saw the way it caved into even the gentlest of thumps from her fingertips as they lay upon her abdomen.

"I'll uh…I'll probably shed a few pounds while I'm here!" Just as suddenly as it came, the joy drained from her face in the reality of this joke. "…Oh. Oh no."

Her spine lurched forward a little and could be seen trembling her torso with fear, with sickness. She led herself back down to the chair, clutching her stomach not so gently one last time before laying face down against the surface of the table.

And again, how absurd. Maybe that was the word that described the woman best; it certainly was the one that described how he felt around her. He had solidified once and for all just moments ago that he would care for her, would indeed care for the lamb that Bendy found astray. He was rewarded only with two things: the first being the pain her presence brought- the torture of knowing that flesh and blood still could be among the ink, and yet not suitable for him even in his great patience; the second was her volatility, the way this woman pried, demanded, and sobbed for and against him. It was an inexpressibly uncomfortable, strenuous test his lord asked of the prophet.

Leaning against the rim of the table, in front of his lame sheep, sat a familiar face. Somehow, he had neglected to acknowledge the presence of a banjo not his own that had been in their counsel the moment they took refuge here.

His own chair creaked as he leaned into it, carrying in his arms an old- or rather the duplicate of- an old friend. By second nature, he plucked the finest of the strings- a bit out of tune, it was. Sammy adjusted the tightness and plucked again. Better.

A corner of her brow lifted from behind a layer of hair sprawled onto the table. He noticed her noticing him, of course, but all he could think to do was move on to the next string, and then the next, and then the next. By the time the banjo was properly tuned, her full face rested underneath her arms, looking up upon the musician in weary wonder as she laid the front of her body across the table between them.

There was so much anticipation up til this point. Of course, she was enraptured by the sound itself, and that led to the mystery of what he would do next. "Play the banjo" somehow wasn't the answer for her; it was going to be more magical than that. So otherworldly was it to hear music, even if it was one note at a time down a scale.

Sammy, on the other hand, was an anxious wreck enveloped by his own unwillingness to turn back. Of course, he was delighted to play- he always had been, as this was what his lord desired- but…but as each string sung out, he realized more and more it wasn't him he would be playing for now. Trouble was, he hadn't imagined playing at all, but it was clear as glass he gave her reason to expect otherwise. What a dilemma.

"…" Sammy intended to speak but was blank. It was, indeed, a very specific kind of emptiness, however. This was the space he was supposed to address her. "…" he couldn't speak again, unsure how to go on.

"…" she countered, glancing down at his tarry appendages over the banjo. The hypocrite waited with baited breath, with her unconscious eagerness of what lay in his hands. Sammy decided upon a trade, a long awaited one.

"Despite how much trouble we've gotten ourselves into over my name," Sammy said, lifting his hand from the banjo strings to creacte a fist and support his chin almost teasingly, "…you have so carefully ensured I would never hear yours."

The woman turned red immediately, and Sammy felt a strange blend of playful vengeance and true spite as he could visibly see recognition penetrate every pore of her skin and change its hue. It was too soon to smile himself, even in its great irony, but he finally said what needed to be said and it gave him solace. Awkwardness would always rise before it waned, as would humiliation and hurt feelings. Honestly, for all he knew, maybe she didn't need a name; the purpose of this wasn't to attain her name but to transfuse his frustration. And so, it was more than he expected when she finally spoke.

"I'm…I'm so sorry. It's…it's…I'm Francine."

His entire form tilted in surprise, looming over the instrument in his lap rather than holding it while keeping his head parallel with hers. She couldn't read him, but he read her; Sammy caught the flashes of emotion over her face, the sharp spikes of shame at being caught in her hypocrisy. …Guilt; he saw that. He leaned back once more in his chair, gaping mask still pointed her way. He was satisfied.

"Francine," he hummed. Francine nodded slightly in reply, and so his hand curled over the strings once more. "Well…" His head titled at her expressively. "I mustn't keep you waiting any longer, should I?"

And as music finally filled the apartment and sounds of beauty rather than revile swept around them, he quietly recognized how swiftly he had forgiven her, how soothing it was to feel a slight vibration in his seat as she tapped her foot to the rhythm, how her quick changes of mood somehow left him more solid than before.


	22. Daniel

**22- Daniel**

 _"_ _Keep on loving one another as brothers and sisters. Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it."_ \- Hebrews 13:1-2

* * *

The newly named beings were content for a moment, even in their unimaginable turmoil. They had each other. It wasn't much, but they had each other.

How long was it before they both secretly started to stir, to long for something else? As always, each had a quite different reason than their counterpart. The woman's was simple: the apartment was small, and she was increasingly unsettled the longer they stayed. Maybe it was the sharp taste of salt staining her throat with each can of bacon soup, only to be quenched by water that only sometimes was without a grey stream of ink from the faucet. Maybe it was how the walls seemed to close in, growing tighter and tighter as she walked down the short corridor between the three rooms. Maybe it was the collage of monstrosities she found tucked behind a corner, making her scream so loudly that Sammy ran to her side. She noticed the way he pulled her back, the manner he dragged her into his side with a gasp of his own, the tone in his voice when he saw she was only surprised by a collection of pictures upon the wall and apologized for having grabbed her with no purpose, how he forgot to scold her for screaming at all.

Francine noticed how he seemed to stir, too, and it added to her anxiousness.

The novelty of recent events was of great distraction, but even the personification of everything he ever wanted couldn't cease his yearning, his prayers. Sammy had a routine for decades after all, a well-worn path that felt so deeply unnatural to stray. His worship was his life. Despite feeling that somehow, certainly, all this with the woman was for Bendy and done in his name, it still ached so much to tread the waters of the unknown.

Sammy had hoped in vain that strumming the banjo they had found would be enough to quench his fires as they rose from the ashes; it was not satisfying to his own standards of faith. As this dawned upon him over the period of rest, it drifted beyond his heart and the woman could see his clenched fists and hear his soft groans. The murky varnish of demons couldn't smother the anguish of his soul, even as it crawled over and inside every inch of his body.

How long had it been? Maybe a day. Maybe a few. It was enough for the two disciples to hunger too irresistibly for something they'd seen before- the very same thing.

"It's time," he suddenly spoke. The woman found Sammy in front of her as she awoke on the gurney, her eyes squinting since they were still unused the such a dark, shiny figure covering so much of her vision.

She shifted one of her arms to lift herself just a little, unwilling to fully come back from much needed rest. "…H…huh?"

The prophet's mask stared down upon her; even as it looked nothing like the **being itself,** what that face represented was still hard to take in as it hid someone she thoughtlessly wanted to accept. Francine had a knack for reading his body language- had no choice in the matter, honestly- but she only caught an inkling of an emotion: that he was determined.

"The believers must honor their savior." This statement rung so fervently, despite it being recited so, so many times in his life. It was a psalm that would never lose its meaning. He noticed the scrunch of the cloth under her fingers in nervousness, and so he was aware it required elaboration. "I'm going back to the domain of hymns, the…place we were before, where I offer the ink demon my prayers." She could only assume he meant the music hall. She physically perked up at this idea; it was the only room that had truly brought her _comfort_. She could easily feel again how mesmerized she was surrounded by the instruments, how it reminded her of home. This sentiment was enough to ignore what the earlier statement of his could mean. And just as she thought all this, he spoke once more.

It was a plea. In her loud internal conversation, she hadn't absorbed the great pause, the great worry and hesitation of his that took the air and drenched it with disquiet; it was dropped upon her and made her stomach sink.

"My dear sheep… Promise me you won't leave your shelter while I'm away."

And with that, her lightened mood was swallowed up by loss- the loss of a possibility she only just discovered she had. And just as abruptly, she didn't know how to argue. There was something about him, something unsettling and apprehensive. It was less that she respected his request and more that fear of the unspoken left her obedient, so she gave him a nod.

Sammy left her behind to continue blissful sleep- escape from reality- but as soon as the only door she hadn't touched clicked in the distance, she was helpless to a will that demanded she run to his side. Obedience waned into a desperate need for security as soon as she no longer felt his dread.

Francine was unknowingly running towards what Sammy was most afraid of in this world of fears.

* * *

"Hello?!"

 _Hello…hello…_

As she stepped out of the heavily locked saferoom and called out to him in that boisterous yell, a welcome returned from the walls in her own voice. She frowned when another didn't join it.

"SAMMY?!"

 _Sammy! Sammy…! Sammy…_

The echo came from a corridor to her left, and she could see it quickly turned a sharp corner. He must have been just beyond, and so she ran that way. Around the next bend, the hall was empty. Ignoring the thump in her chest, Francine decided to turn the next corner as well. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Again.

…

Lost.

It was only then that the heaving of the machinery around her was finally heard, their sputters and coughs pounding into her until it put more breath into her than own lungs. As the woman hyperventilated to the beats of metal, direction was forgotten, and she didn't know which way she came from. So stupidly, so illogically, she then saw the darkness ahead and went into it. It was no longer known if she intended to find him or to turn back; Francine simply wished to leave this loudness, and that instinct threw her into the den of lions.

* * *

 _Bjn-n-n…_

"Tsk!" Sammy mumbled under his breath. No matter how he fiddled, he could not repeat the clarity of sound in his own banjo that the borrowed one of the apartment possessed, the one _this one_ used to possess as well. _"That girl…"_ he thought with a strike of venom. And just as he did, the emptiness, the quietness of the recording room surrounded him, penetrating from all sides. Not even the searchers wanted to give him company, as they often did. He was truly alone. Sammy looked at the broken instrument upon his lap; even in its pathetic state, it told him to not blame her for how it pained…how Sammy pained, as well.

Indeed, the fire still burned inside him. Despite being where the prophet knew he belonged until the days of suffering passed, it wasn't enough. How cruel it was for him to have to endure this feeling. How…selfish he was for thinking at first that he didn't deserve this.

Sammy felt this way because as the comprehension consumed his suddenly unskilled hands, a sensation emerged all around him where the silence used to be. They called. Just as she was here with him last, the old strings called for her. They called for someone new to praise in their lord's name. To him, it was as if he was being shunned for refusing to bring her back, but he knew it was really he that longed for her revitalizing presence.

He was aware how despicable it was to want that of her, but even the shame of asking her to risk safety again wasn't enough to stop him. The banjo was placed down yet again as the inevitable reunion was set in stone. He dragged his feet to the exit, and Sammy prayed this was really what Bendy would want of him; heaven knows what would happen to her if not for the company of her shepherd.

* * *

Finally. Finally, there was light. Her heavy breath was taken by what waited. A giant- a…a _MASSIVE_ thing was in the biggest room she'd ever seen in her life. It created a noise, a splash somewhere down below where the cascade of ink fell to. The waterfall of Bendy, surrounded by him in every corner of her sight, was finally enough for her to realize.

 _"_ _This isn't the way."_

Her chest thumped and shook her fingers as the Heavenly Toys stared at her, as if she interrupted a party uninvited. They stared, they stared, they stared-

"This isn't the way!" She finally managed to persuade herself and began to step back. However, something then invited her to stay.

She couldn't make out the words, but something was behind the falling river that centered the room. A staircase by the right side twirled behind into the undiscovered, the only spot she couldn't see. There was another, too, but decay and the rot of ink seemed to cause it to collapse into unclimbable, splintering wood. Francine's eyes twitched down at her hands clasped into her chest. She was reminded of something by this sound he was hearing- she remembered when Gabby first went missing and her hands tried to hold herself just as they were now. Despite the horror of what this sound could mean, Francine closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and listened.

Beyond her flooding pulse was the sound of someone else lost and hurt as herself. That was enough for her to bury her doubts and charge ahead through the chamber of watchful toys.

* * *

Gears sputtered here, too, as Francine came to the workshop. Ah, well…she was _kind of_ right all that time ago, she supposed with sarcasm. She still didn't know the purpose of all these pipes and the ink each seemed designed to carry, but her naïve belief when she first entered the studio that they were related to some sort of production line was now affirmed. The toys across the belt smiled teasingly, but she took it in stride. After all, this distraction helped her calm down and take direction.

She closed her eyes to listen again but didn't need to. It was evident now without concentration that the voice was certainly beyond the mess of toy shelves blocking her path, much closer than before. Francine was so frightened, so apprehensive now that she could hear it clearly; she doubted the shrieks in her heart that reminded her of Gabby. Surely, if there was someone else here, she shouldn't interfere, she should run away in terror and hope they never cross paths.

As if it could hear the worries clambering inside Francine, the voice finally reached above a murmur and became comprehensible, forcing her eyes to shoot open.

"Hello..."

This word again welcomed her, but the echo this time was unnaturally close after, almost unified. It must have been the thick walls that separated she and this person that distorted their sound. There was a great, great pause in this speech that seemed to twist the room around her; she finally leaned onto a worktable to steady herself. Suddenly, it came upon her that this wasn't a monologue- it was a conversation. And so, she needed to steady her voice too, at least enough so to speak at all.

"H-…h-…" Oh dear god. Francine was choking on her own words, too overwhelmed by the presence of someone beyond the door to even interact with them. A cold sweat ran over her forehead.

"My, my…you seem so… _scared."_ The last word was different than the last; it was sweeter, a different tone- like an entirely different person. Francine somehow decided to try replying once more.

"Y-…yes," she panted, and suddenly the rest tripped out of her mouth in panic. "I'm so scared! I- I'm-…"

Francine stopped herself, not just shameful of her vulnerability but realizing she was confessing to this person she didn't know- actually thought _couldn't_ even exist. There was a few seconds of noiselessness where Francine finally grasped why she was drawn deeper into this cavern of playful terrors. Sammy never talked about anyone else. He never acted like there was another truly sentient being besides himself. They seemed to be alone in this world, two beings destined to walk side by side in the shadow of Bendy, waiting for his mercy. The shock in this moment hadn't yet laid way to the necessary questions, and so every utterance beyond the wall came as those of divinity, of unreal and amazing truths.

 _"_ _Why don't you open the door, so we can finally meet? Th_ ere should be a lever just outside that'll move these shelves between us."

Francine was getting a headache from how her cheeks kept pushing against the corners of her eyes in distress and disbelief, but she still managed to push past her stunned state to twist and face where she came from. Unwittingly, she lifted herself up so her full weight was on her feet, and then the woman trudged to trace the cables on the floor that led to the switch this person had promised.

As a thick _clunk!_ ran through the walls after it was pressed, Francine's palms went back to her side. One leg turned to lead her back, but the other was glued to the floor as her gaze finally had enough lucidity to reveal that just outside the staircase, some of the ink puddles on the floor were moving.

"Oh, you were very noisy coming to see little old me, weren't you?"


	23. In Excelsis Deo

**Author's Notes:** The song in this chapter is "Sally's Song" from The Nightmare Before Christmas.

 **23- In Excelsis Deo**

" _Daniel answered, 'May the king live forever! My God sent his angel, and he shut the mouths of the lions.'"_ \- Daniel 6:21-22

* * *

Francine couldn't feel herself anymore. The numbness that came with the discovery of concealed camaraderie was overwhelmed with a new sort of emptiness- the void of overwhelming dread. Indeed, the half-man had returned in its full splendor, sliding through the crowd of toys, its remnants disappearing only seconds after detaching again and again from the stub where its legs should be. In and out of eternity, the being splashed before her very eyes.

It splashed right for her, hungry with desire; it sensed blood.

Not only that, there was…something else. A shifting motion stroked her vision from the corner of the gallery. And as she saw it wasn't only _one_ beast that cursed these halls after all, she finally screamed. There was no way for the woman to escape. Her palms gripped the bars that lined the platform, hair falling over her face as she leaned her entire torso over, a desperate measurement of height. No, she'd break her legs if she jumped from all the way up here, and broken wood of the collapsed staircase waited below like pointed spears.

A sound came to her left, and Francine spotted in full view that the first damned creature was dragging itself along the staircase- the only uninterrupted staircase down. Cheeks grimaced forcefully and pinched her eyes so tight that it was a grin; as she sobbed, it almost sounded like a laugh was scratching her throat. This was insanity. And just as she decided to do the insane as well, she heard someone. Soon it would propose something that was even madder than what she had in mind.

Thank goodness she had a guardian angel after all.

"My dear…" Thick like velvet, a voice lingered through the walls behind her back and placed itself squarely, resolutely upon her shoulders. "Please…there's no need to hurt yourself."

Francine hardly balanced over the edge of the railing now, hair swaying all around her like branches of a willow tree as she faced the certainly unfeeling, uncaringly solid floor far below. She heard the groans, the roars of spirits waiting to devour her. To her horror, the second monster on the floor below had chosen to be more direct; it seemed to move closer-

Oh of course, it was moving to position itself where she'd surely fall and break to pieces, as if it could swallow her whole like a mere bit of popcorn it tossed in the air for its own amusement. Past the bellows of the unholy, she caught the siren's call again.

"You only need to do as I have after all this time- what you and I are both capable of, unlike these horrid, _horrid_ slugs." A little bit of that second person slipped in again, frantic with disturbance, but it seemed unimportant to consider now compared to inevitable death. "It's so simple. It's ridiculous how utterly stupid they are!"

They certainly didn't seem to be as they came for her life.

Francine hugged the wooden bar tight into her entire body, legs wrapping around the vertical beams as she was desperate not to fall- desperate to not let go into either direction, even as the one she was currently in did her no service. For certain, the one below would kill her, but the one to her left was moaning- moaning just as loudly for her demise as it came closer…and closer…and cl-

"Please! Help me, PLEASE! Oh, oh _GOD!-_ " and she only thereafter screeched meaningless, terrorized howls to someone that waited beyond reality.

The mortal had finally called upon divine intervention, a cry clawing through the shrouds of agony. And finally, it touched the heart of its beholder. One could almost hear the smirk in their next testament.

"My little cherub," they began in a giggle heavy with amusement, "you nee _d to sing."_

The sound of the searchers was strained out of her ears in disbelief.

"…I need to _wha- AAH! "_

And she felt once again a cold, unnatural touch grip her ankle, just as there was the moment she arrived in the studio. What- what was it doing?! Oh, shit. Oh SHIT! It wasn't just yanking her down with its inexplicably cold arms- it was-…

A screech echoed again as its ink warped around her skin and bone, uncontained by humanly limits, attempting to make what has _hers_ become _its._

Suddenly a strong, reflexive kick came crashing down, and it was utterly regretful. The hand that enveloped her was subsequently torn apart, drips of black scattering all around like a gunshot spraying murky blood. A crime scene blew around her body and covered her in speckles of bitter, reeking death. Coughs came naturally, too, not just to catch her breath but to reject the taste of ink that flew into her open mouth. Briefly she squinted her eyes, and surely, she must have missed some dark, incredible instant of deviltry in doing so; when they opened, the half-man was merely staring up at where their flesh used to join, beholding what was left of its arm.

She caught the last split second where it finished reforming, good as new.

Yet another scream was accompanied by yet another tickled laugh behind the wall.

"We won't be able to meet if you don't listen to me." The sugary one then rose once more. _"Sing!"_ And they drew out the last word slow and smooth in demonstration.

Abruptly, the oily thing changed before it could try to gnaw at her again.

It's "head" lifted, and it turned in each and every direction; the searchers would never cease their namesake, but this time it was a draw to something besides the intoxicating whiffs of mortality the woman hauled throughout the entrails of the studio. The one that nipped her feet sensed something, and it captivated its very being at the drop of a pin. Initially she feared what this authority may be, and a tense moment of silence stirred between them. Eventually, she understood what to do, and she immediately grew to be resentful for its total denial of reality.

Not that she had much choice.

The sound from her lips quivered as her very soul did. Words subdued all in the chamber- so small and quiet, and yet the only ones heard. The only ones that mattered, it seemed, to the searchers.

One of Francine's eyes managed to push past her fear, and she witnessed the beast before her slacken. Indeed, she glimpsed in the horizon of her sight, too, that the one below had stopped raising its arms to the heavens- to its prey- and was now merely a drop on the floor in the presence of something beyond its comprehension.

And so she kept on, unknowing when to stop nor what would happen once she did- if her scratchy refrain even held them at bay at all. It was all so ridiculous...so gravely ridiculous as it churned the blood in her veins. Only a few lines into this song- this passion of worry- the voice from beyond returned, and it beckoned in the smoother of its two hums, "There's one of my Little Miracle Stations in the front of the room- hide there. GO!" It was a command harsh in either impatience or concern, and for now just as the voices were indistinguishable, so were these two emotions.

Francine found herself unquestionably abiding by this savior, unhinging her body from the wooden railing and still engaging in this hymn upon her tongue; her feet joined the floor so terribly close to the swarming flesh of the monster she'd been coached to enrapture. She pondered desperately what the thing would do once she inched away, if she even found the power to do so within muscles rigid with adrenaline and unease. There were no eyes in its constantly collapsing sockets, and yet its gaze stung like wasps at her every move.

…It let her pass.

The song lined the border of the stairs like flowing cloth as it wistfully led her to the trenches of perdition; the voice in the wall had passed the reigns of these creatures to her own throat so it may live on to scream another day. Despite how she shook- how many notes she missed as squeaks and gasps of agony fell in tandem with the drum of searchers' watching and shifting, entirely disinclined to chase as before- it was still remarkable to all who listened.

And it was truly to _all_ who listened.

Roughened wood stroked into her left palm as Francine breezed slowly over the rail at her side, beginning to descend into the lounge haunted by the many faces of Bendy, circling the liquified ghosts that pierced her with their mesmerization to make way to a box against the wall, a label etched across its door. Such appreciation wasn't a compliment when one dreaded being eaten alive at any moment, however.

What was this melody? The being above had never heard it before, but they could still feel its nadirs with intensity, and they gradually became…moved. How sad was it that this was the song that came to the human most naturally- that in her great distress and foreboding, it only spoke of how alone she was in the gutters of her heart. And just like that, their plans for her became so much more meaningful in this moment.

Something was in the wind, tragedy at hand, and she couldn't stand by him…whoever "he" was. It made the one behind the shelves sicken with sudden, unexpected grief…with understanding. They had felt this before, too- overcame it every waking moment so they may become better, stronger, more _beautiful…_ and yet could still claim this ache this like it was yesterday. Was it yesterday? Oh, how delightfully disgusting it can be to not know where the paths carved by immortality lie.

Regardless, the sounder from beyond the toymaker's gears lamented as Francine did, that never ending craving, grieving, begging for another soul to come for their own so they may suffer together.

"Maybe it won't be that way for long," was the inner musings of a life perpetually lost to the depths of their own quarantine.

* * *

Mellowed groans eventually wavered and fell out of existence like raindrops down a sewer drain. Hesitantly, she pressed her eyes towards the slit of radiance that fell into the Little Miracle Station, and at the sight ahead every ounce of her began to tilt to the sides of the box in release; a magically dreary tune she memorized long, long ago finally faded after a few full iterations of its verses, staining her tongue with a hue of nostalgia. Remarkable- utterly remarkable it was like this…that this was all that occurred. Everything that happened was unbelievable, from start to end, and it left Francine exasperated with shock as she lay there in the dark haven.

Her eyes closed with weariness, and similar as when she first came to this giant room, a muffled voice arrived in her ears. She then remembered how this all began. Truth be told, she was unnerved to her core; within this world of impossibilities, what was before her was its own contradiction. The way Sammy described things to her, this…- _They…-_

The person up ahead…shouldn't exist.

Unanimously, words of velvet and nectar rang once more, not only beckoning Francine but reminding them both of their promise, and that was enough. Yes, she had firmly decided they will finally meet, and so the door creaked open to release the woman to the hell of angels.

* * *

The row of shelves had separated, pearly gates yellowed with rot. What sat ahead was an engulfing shade tinted by grey boxes; their glow trickled to the edges of this tiny room and revealed very little, but it was enough. In generosity towards her anxious soul, maybe it contained only what she could handle at once. The visage of another cartoon raised their hand on the screens, asking the woman to join the song drifting in and out of faded stereos. Straight in front of her, their personification balanced the large frame between them. Tall and towering as they stood upon a pedestal crafted by decades of refinement, the one behind a shattered window looked down upon the mortal somehow in both casual condescendence and unadulterated mercy.

Francine saw that she and them had pulled their jaws back in unanimous mystification, but the shadows couldn't hide that theirs was jagged with unfathomable bumps and ripping muscle. It made her flinch back, but the being didn't respond in inevitable pain, what she must have imagined the agony would be to have your face torn like that; they merely looked…disappointed, sad as they witness someone with the wholeness they desired and deserved look upon all their life's effort like an undeserving wretch.

As the vocalists basked in each other's preposterous glory, there somehow came a simple politeness that seemed to have escaped she and Sammy before.

"Who… who are you!?"

Only one of their eyes crinkled properly in response, upper lid lowering in tenderness. The other gaped like an open sore, oozing tar into the shredded wounds of their left cheek, hollowed with trial and error. It was unfeeling, and yet it filled Francine with an unbearable emotion.

"My _po_ or de _ar,"_ a choir of two emerged from black lips parted down the middle with gory perfection, smiling slightly at one end and unable to cease scowling with the other. The woman finally understood that it wasn't the broken glass separating she from them that sliced what she saw into pieces.

"I'm Al _ice Angel!"_


	24. The Knight

**24- The Knight**

" _Deliver those who are being taken away to death, and those who are staggering to slaughter, oh hold them back."_ \- Proverbs 24:11

* * *

Someone found a door heavy with locks wide open with no one in sight. He heard a mutter in the distance, the machinery down the hall muting a scream.

As Sammy started to run as fast as he could, he finally touched upon the total panic and vexation of a word the woman had uttered many a time:

Shit.

* * *

"I…"

There was so, so much Francine couldn't fathom that had arrived regardless. The smile ahead had widened, a portal that housed two souls. Who is this? … _Why_ is this? How can they possibly stand before her? How do they even _exist?_

Surely, this one was different than the prophet- much more solid, the woman observed. The only sign of molding was the pliable stretches of flesh that clawed into the left side of their face. Alice Angel's meticulous sculpting had paid off, in that sense, and hid most of an eternity of scarring, mutilating surgery. Besides that?

Alice saw the mortal's head lift up and down and its eyes shudder with awe. They responded with tender pity.

"My cherub," the cartoon began with the softest wisp of a breath, "look at you!"

Like a child, Francine's shoulders automatically twitched into her own view, and she started to investigate with a twist of her arms and hands. What was she supposed to be looking for?

"You're a complete mess!"

And the prophet's sheep discovered this to be true. The black, rotting carcass of a searcher was splattered all over her body, sharp spots against her smooth hide, soiling her second shirt so soon after releasing it to the elements. She _felt_ she was a mess before that, she had to admit. Hair roots sticky with ink, and frizzy with abandoned care. Skin itchy, flaky, and pimpled. Face sore with the effort of shouts, making her eyes sting with every blink.

" _Come here."_

As she bathed in the angel's light, the woman puckered a frown and unconsciously gripped her wrist. Something didn't feel right. Why wouldn't Sammy mention…- and indeed, they must have been- …another human being?

The draw of those last three words was what drew her in.

She thoughtlessly got close. Very close. A round nose almost touched the small cracks in the pane of glass between them, each small line revealing how the window stood against time- a delicate barrier that somehow weathered the black storm of immortality with only a few holes to show for it. Francine had to crane her neck to look up at this person.

She found she had unwittingly lifted her hand towards the being much taller than she, exuding otherworldly glory and possibility under a spotlight within this cage of a recording booth. The seraph's face softened with a sigh and two hands rested parallel between their owners, only separated by the window between them. Their palms only felt the ridges of old glass, and yet it was as if they were holding each other so soon after they just met.

"We…" the being began with great longing in their chest, "…deserve so, so much better."

And although "better" meant drastically different things to them both, Francine found herself in agreement. However, something caught in her throat- not a tickling inquiry but a coarse, scratchy one, one that hurt to contain like sandpaper down her windpipe.

"…Alice?" It was a statement of both the affirming of discovery and the begging of questions.

" _Yes?"_

"I… I just…"

Francine was finally fully taken by the first mystery that enraptured her, the first thought since she heard the siren's call. A squint fell to the floor and lips separated, taking too long of a moment to find its voice for the angel's liking. Indeed, something was not right, and Alice started to perceive this, too.

She would soon utterly despise what this silence held at bay.

"He…he never…" The woman didn't notice a sharp twist in the angel's face, every detail of lulling hope becoming that of dawning revulsion. "Sammy never…told me about anyone else."

…

…

…

" _What?"_

"S-Sammy. He didn't-"

" _WHAT?!"_

Right where their hands had met suddenly came crashing down the full strength of Alice's fist. The utter brutality of it sent Francine reeling back and she consequently tripped over her feet, falling onto her backside with a guttural whimper of simultaneous pain and alarm. As she beheld the fury of the irreproachable, both their sides scowling instead of just one in utmost ferocity, shards of the window had scattered at her feet with light cries upon the floor.

Something had overcome Alice. Every feature of royal abundance- of unwavering pristineness- was now a feature of profane, burning anger. Unknown to them in this instant of shattered amazement, Francine and Alice shared the same thought:

What in god's name were they supposed to say to _THAT?!_

And how much it terrified them both.

…A shuffle against the floorboards a ways behind the mortal had interrupted their confrontation.

The woman suddenly saw Alice's chin lift; it now ignored the human now sprawled behind remnants of the glass barrier. Somehow, this deep, penetrating, unwavering hatred in the angel's eye grew, and it was released in the most haunting and haunted of voices.

"…You."

* * *

Once again, despite being so dark himself, every light in existence knew how to crawl over Sammy's oily form and make shapes out of shadow. The flickering of tv screens put an ethereal glow over the mask of his master, and thank his lord that it was there in his stead as he faced the seraph.

The worst had happened. The absolute worst had happened.

It was before his very eyes.

" _FRANCINE!"_

He without hesitation threw his upper body forward to lunge for the sheep, waiting for the arms of a savior, a protector against the wrath of those fallen from heaven.

"Sammy," a different voice replied. It was trying out the word, as it had been long lost to time and scorn. She had refused to use it. She refused to grant him that dignity; it was only fitting, seeing he refused it for even himself.

He wasn't the man he used to be, and was never the man she thought he was, after all.

And suddenly he too was frozen like the lamb that waited for him just a few feet ahead. As he stood in the entrance of the theater, arm outstretched, the mere whisper of his name in _that voice_ was enough to stop him.

Mouth agape, the woman could only sit in shock as the siren took him too.

Alice's cutting frown suddenly slid into a grimace- a pained grin.

"You found another to _y,_ _didn't you?"_

What?

"Another plaything that you'll praise and rise only to bring crashing down." Her right cheek twisted in memory. _"And you'll LA_ UGH, and you'll LAUGH, and you'll-…"

She gently banged against the glass one more time, a few more of its chips twinkling to the ground, and her head dipped. Light chuckles turned into breaths of sobs.

"I can't believe I thought I found someone… _someone from above…"_ She gasped heavily. _"Someone to help me reach perfection."_ She inhaled with a sniffle before continuing. "But…" Alice forehead lifted slightly, and a sliver of her eye and her hole could be seen, pointed directly at the woman like a dagger. "You're not any better than the errand boy was, are you?"

Once again, this hatred turned towards Francine. Underneath a swamp of dark hair, a papery eye pierced its veil and pinned the woman where she lay like a butterfly displayed on a cork wall. It was a look of someone feeling the most profound of betrayals. She flinched when the angel began to pull back her upper body, the open wound of her face revealing a glimmer of bare teeth.

"'Sammy!' 'Sammy!' 'SAMMY!'" she suddenly screamed again, the word fanning flames inside her heart till it emerged like a dragon, coming for the sinners perched at her feet. Just as suddenly, she calmed, and fire became stinging ice. "…I haven't heard that name in a very… _very_ …long time." She looked back up at the ink man once more, right eye pinched in disgust. "I thought you gave that name to our 'savior.' You know, like everything else about you?" A small huff roughened her throat, and her next statement was so low with contempt that it was hardly audible.

"Not that you had much to give in the first place."

That word- "savior"- arrived so heavy upon her tongue that in that second, one could almost feel the ink demon in the walls- as if he listened, as if he knew, as if he replied. If he did, however, no retribution would come just yet.

As the angel alone was briefly enraptured with apprehension of their god, Francine finally threw her head back to look at Sammy. She remembered that time she had found that horrible collage of pictures that drew up a monster in the safehouse- how she screamed and he came, how he immediately pulled her to his side- his innate caution.

He only could stand behind her now, only capable of complete and utter silence.

Something was deeply, deeply wrong. More than how greatly wrong this seemed before.

"…S-Sammy?"

He would not reply. He stood still as he had each time something new was revealed to him. The decades he lost coming back one grain of sand at a time had held enough weight to sink him into his intermittent darkness.

And at this, knowing the prophet's nature- spotting his unusual lack of never-ceasing bouts of religiosity that was spewed even in his boundless, pitiable fear of her- a terrible, regretful idea came into the angel's heart; she had grown sick with his lack of response, of his denial to even argue the existence of his sins to her, and so her next taunt would change her forever.

"Don't you remember? Don't you recall your friend? _The angel?!"_

It was said with a poisonous smirk that faded into an open frown, lips tugged further and further by dread with each passing second of nothingness. He only stood. He only stood.

After all he did to Susie, how was stillness now all within him to do!?

…No, he was dripping to the floor as well, wasn't he?

Each _splat_ that ran down from his palms echoed an admission of unbearable, overwhelming fear. Once again, the surface of his abs slid over the waistband of pants, a container that barely kept his legs together in the first place. Precipitously, the angel glimpsed that it wasn't only fear of her that had corroded his form.

To her horror, there was finally an understanding after all these years of hell together what the woman upon the floor had discovered within a matter of hours.

"Why- why don't…you…" Her voice quivered, having never felt before such an incredible toss of her heart to ground, and it felt like these two had come to stomp it into the cracks of wood, joining the small capillaries of ink that brought the studio its infernal life. Suddenly, everything about Sammy's callousness made sense.

And it was only hiding all this time because she refused to call him by his name.

" _You don't…_ You don't _remember, d_ o you?"

A look of surprise then tore into the deepest, most afflicted scowl.

"…Damn you."

And that was it. All that she could muster. All that she could say to the evil frozen at her feet, encompassed by her broken glass.

Abruptly, she turned her back to the disciples with a fling of the arm. They barely heard her speak, the air around her thick with revelation.

"Leave."

The two unholy beings in her presence felt hefty alarm toss onto their chests. They were gagged with fear, and neither moved even an inch. Of course, this quiet could never last.

And so the angel spitefully crooked back around to face them, and two voices merged to create an unbearable volume, one last roar of a lioness desperate to lick her wounds in peace.

" _LEAAAAAAAVE!"_

Francine instantly found the strength in her limbs to scramble up and flee like an animal of prey, her feet blessed with the power of instinct. She didn't run far, however, as in front of the exit stood a guard.

Even as the angel bid their release- an act of mercy to the people who deserved none- Sammy was unmoving, solid in place like a statue. Francine stared up at the sentinel, his mask greyed out of reality as she knew it by the light of the cartoons that framed the shrieking angel, who had casted them back to their personal hell so they may be absent from hers.

His face rested behind this layer of prayer and protection, unseen- an armor steeled against the pains of his past.

The clatter of the projections behind her back began to beat her heart and fill her with panic. She heard the angel gasp in preparation of another command; they could not wait a second longer for his smothering memory to give him back.

She took Sammy by the arm and hoped against hope that was enough.

Thank God it was.

He willingly, mindlessly ran behind her. A silhouette bellowed at them with all their being as they fled into the light. A lifetime of ache seeped into every corner of the studio, and it was shaken with their pain.

* * *

Alice didn't give chase, but they didn't bother to check. The sheep dragged the shepherd over the stairs, through the lounge, and into the maze of machinery. Her legs only gave way once the walls suffocated them just a touch less. It was a room with a vent where long ago a dog and an animator parted and felt the anxiety of separation; now it held the anxiety of union.

The disciples stood together, panting for entirely different reasons.

She stared at him in disbelief, numb from the many questions and possibilities that their encounter with Alice Angel wove into the strings that tied the mortal and the walking corpse together. At first, this was just enough time for her to soak the horror in, but…

She eventually saw that even after fleeing the scrutinizing glower of the angel, he still hadn't the ability to do anything at all. He wasn't moving. He wasn't speaking. Merely enveloped in his own trauma.

Where was the yelling? The scolding? The questioning? Heck, as uncharacteristic as it would be, even the consoling? In the very least- dear God- try to EXCUSE any lies!

Where…

Where was he?

Desperation flashed over her eyes. "S…Sammy? What the heck just happened?!" Bitterness crept into her tone. "Who the _FUCK_ WAS _THAT?!"_

Nothing.

" _SAMMY?!"_

She grabbed his overall straps and jerked him towards her. He simply flopped, some of his body flecking droplets onto her skin and her shoes. His chin tilted down with the shake and angled at her, but it was not a seeing gaze. Her palms turned white with pressure as she gripped the fastenings that hardly contained this puddle of a man.

Anything! Please, just ANYTHING!

He remained as she was, and quivering hands finally realized to let go so they may comfort her in his stead.

She doubled over before him, collapsing where his weight should have been to catch her in this moment, gripping her knees and mixing coughs of exhausted lungs with sobs of her heart.

There was nothing that he could reply to that with, and it terrified her.

* * *

A reflection of the siren appeared in every shard of glass upon the ground, each crystal capturing the image of her gooey flesh.

She had finally stopped bellowing, but only because there was no strength left in her chest to do so.

Gasping silently, a hand gloved with ink brushed her now muddled bangs away from her head- a yellowed horn brushing the side of her thumb as she looked down at herself. Her exquisite, yet oh SO agonizing self.

For the first time in a long time, she felt sincere sadness. Before, it was just the anxiety of hiding from the searchers and avoiding as long as possible whatever rested within the clutches of the ink demon's talons, seeming to beckon for her. It was merely a frustration tinged with sour hope to see attempt after attempt to reform her body fail. Now? With the visit of the weakest, most pathetic man in both this life and the last, she was truly despondent for the first time in years.

Or maybe it was that woman's fault, rather.

Questions filled her, wondering if she was manipulated by Sammy- no, of course she was. But how? Was she still to be sacrificed, and the angel had allowed an executioner to lead the woman out of her gates like a calf to the alter? Or was she…-

Alice felt her throat move in a gulp.

…Knowing? _Accepting?!_

The idea alone her with indescribable outrage.

Alice admitted that the "prophet" himself was…harmless. Mostly. Still however, Sammy was nothing but an embodiment of everything she hated. Alice's split face was also split in dismay both for and towards the woman, what her alliance with Bendy's "believer" may entail.

As if this was a summoning, she felt the ink demon come. Her gaze finally tore from the shards at her feet as wavy stripes of grey grew deeper and deeper, shadows dribbling into physical form.

"… _Mostly,"_ she thought one last time before returning to her life of hiding.

* * *

As he stood over her, finally breaking through the vacuous tide of ink and black memories, he once again found his hand begin to approach her. The sight before him, his hand unconsciously centering its frame yet again, was…

Horrific.

Her palms shook with the tremors of ire, and her legs hardly kept her off the floor, wobbling like jelly. Her arms were so taunt that they too trembled, and that shake journeyed all the way up her spine until it rattled the hair upon her head like a tambourine.

Just after leaving the dark pits of his brine- his vile incompetence to remember- he stepped into hers. He felt nauseous.

After all, the way she was before him now was how she made him feel so shorty after they first met.

Suddenly in the fuzzy edge of his gaze, his fingers shifted. He…hadn't moved them from this reach yet- and they still hoped to move further and had waved to him in impatience. What would he do? They needed to know.

Her soft, choked cries then began to drift into his heart and left him breathless. There was much that stunned, disturbed, and aggrieved his very being into the complete and utter darkness of truth, and it left him gasping for air upon her shores.

The tangible problems of this world overtook the ones plaguing his soul. Thoughtlessly yet oh so full of thought, he began to bend at his own knees before her.

His hand clasped his knee. Muscles twitched in effort. He couldn't stop his stimming- his ring finger from tapping in anxiety over and over and shaking the cloth of his torn pants. Like she, this movement traveled up his body, and it brought him back to life.

Indeed, the sight of her brought him back to life.

He kneeled before her, left lower leg pressing its entire length horizontally to the floor. His right was bent upright and virtuous, yet humble as its barely existent foot rested before hers, the arm that shook with life leaned over this lap.

His neck bent to look up at her now that she had curled her body into itself; the dim light of the room was still enough to highlight his curve; it revealed gentle, yellow light and flecks of pale powder that tried to approach- an aura of dust broken by the breath in his shoulders.

As he lowered himself to her, he was even then someone of great height; his head was far, far past where anyone else in Francine's old life would be if they had taken these positions. And yet, it had never been done before to compare. It was a show of wordlessly immense sympathy and sorrow- a lack of assurance in how else to assure she was not alone, even in his failure.

She was not alone in this torturing, suffocating uncertainty Alice Angel unwittingly hurled them into.

The light of the bulb above struck his jaw as it looked ahead to her own, which rested upside down in front of her abdomen. The jagged window of his mask once again revealed a parting of lips, open with gentle determination.

Croaky heaves eventually settled into a subtle pulse of inhalations, and eyes fluttered open to the face they had attempted to escape. It was blank, the mask- simply a grin of eternal optimism- yet she finally saw it carried so much. Scratch upon scratch tore over the paint and lightened the thin wood with tales of desperation. The worn eyes of Bendy were smudged with a hope that lasted longer than she had been alive. And beneath it all waited a man who only wanted what every other human being had.

The mask was smiling through the ever-present misery of these inky walls and was trying to offer the courage that kept Sammy alive- enough of a human soul that refused to accept anything less than release- to her.

And in all his tortured majesty- a living testament to faith- he had chosen to rest before the feet of someone with so much more than he, not to beg for what he lacked but to give what little he had left.

…She couldn't let him. Not like this. It didn't feel right.

Eyes tightened with burning tears, she took one hand from her thighs to place it upon his lowered shoulder; she felt its slick curve between her fingers, and his chill seeped into her veins until every inch of her body was cut with the same unforgiving coldness of the pipes. It may not have carried her own blood, but it coursed his all around them every step of the way. They were- and had always been- surrounded by his gory immortality.

It gushed the blood of Bendy, the leviathan who filled every being in this studio with himself, life and death incarnate.

Francine shook her head, prickling thoughts suddenly like dandruff clinging to her scalp and refusing to leave alone.

She felt her expression die, outrage drifting into the calm features of clemency. Just for this moment, they'd think about something else. God knows that they wouldn't be able to handle it no matter when it was addressed; might as well take care of the immediate.

And the immediate? It was the knowledge that if he had chosen in each moment of his own purgatory to stay by her side, the least she could do was remain by his. If Francine was overwhelmed with the possibilities the being far behind them had presented, she assumed Sammy's must be tenfold. The questions of the angel's existence would fall into place where they may. She had to trust Sammy. She had to. Even if her worst fear was true and he had lied to her purposefully about Alice, about himself, about the past.

She had to.

Anything else would result in her spiritual end.

Her touch knighted Sammy, again choosing to push aside doubts neither of them could answer for just for a moment. Just…for one moment.

Let them rest, just for one moment.


	25. Safe

**25- Safe**

"' _Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me.'"_ – John 14:1

* * *

Through dust and grime, the silhouettes of the disciples held a golden outline from the light of the room. Their expressions were barely visible, but the hazy vision could still discern the aura they emanated. Panic was merely a leaf in the wind in their storm of determination. Why did they trust each other after all that happened?

As this question was pondered, it made someone smile.

* * *

The chitter chatter of gears was overwhelming, but it was certainly the events that had just taken place that swallowed their usual conversation. Again and again, the incredible happened and left both the woman and the man completely unsure of the world around them. It was such a strange situation- granted that the former had total knowledge of the life outside the studio and the latter had been enveloped by this dark, twisted fate far longer than he was supposed to be alive.

And yet neither of them knew what to think, even as their understanding melded two halves into a whole universe. As such, both welcomed the talking of the machine over their own. It bit them to ignore the inquiries of Sammy's relation to the angel, of course, but both had resolved to find someplace safer than where they had stopped to rest before anything else.

It was pitch black where Sammy had taken them; she hadn't noticed before how she only barely traversed this hall in her earlier, fretful pursuit for her friend. It was only highlights of dim, glowing buttons and signals on the devices that made corners navigable.

There was a light skidding noise across the floor as Francine gripped his arm to stop his leading. His mask turned parallel to his shoulders, a sliver of a mouth revealed and open in breathless waiting.

"I- I have a light." True, he didn't seem to need it, perceiving how confidently he weaved the maze, but it would make _her_ feel more secure.

The edge of her phone case glimmered a dark, dusty rose, and just when Sammy shifted his upper body to investigate more closely, his sight was gone.

As the flashlight hit him square in the-…eyes? - he shouted in agony and his arms swung with wild alarm; it was a failed attempt to keep balance, it turned out, as his heel slipped and something cracked behind his spine once he tumbled backwards.

As he half sat, half leaned onto a shelf in the path, the source of the light that had blinded him clanked to the floor, and its stream haloed the frizzy edge of her hair as it was flung toward him in urgency.

"Are you okay?! Oh gosh, I heard something break!" The shadows couldn't hide her grimace as she loomed over Sammy. "I am SO _SO_ sorry!" It was true that she hadn't anticipated the ink man would place his face squarely in front of her phone- although he did that last time she showed it to him, _stupid-_ she should have at least warned him. How easy it was to forget that her modernity was not a blessing but a curse if not used in utmost care.

With a few groans, Sammy pushed himself back up to his feet. He was otherwise silent, until-

"M-my lord…!"

Her quizzical gaze was ignored as he brushed past her side, addressing someone that wasn't there.

Or were they?

Where the smash had sounded now held the splintered remains of a Bendy cutout, its broken sneer only recognizable thanks to its distinct design and its history in their lives. The dust lit up and dispersed into the air as it passed over her flashlight, greying out of view as it drifted further and further away. Sammy, too, seemed to be drifting away as he bent down to hold a shard of wood between his fingers in veneration and lament.

It was such a discernable act of regret that it came as a surprise for Francine to simply see him lift his shoulders in a sigh and stand up. Her anxious fidgeting filled his peripheral, blurred by the lantern. Quiet and shaken, his voice was bitter and weary of all her presence brought with her.

"…Don't do that again."

Hands held over her chest clenched together in both embarrassment and relief, accompanied by hurried nods and a brow furrowed with worry- which then rose in curiosity.

He hadn't resumed their journey to the safehouse, and he would not. This is where he had intended to be.

After gingerly picking up her phone once again, she pointed its stream of radiance where the Bendy cutout had been set. Her mouth opened in wordless but questioning awe and her eyes darted back and forth.

Despite being surrounded by them since the moment Bendy saved her life, this was the first time she had noticed a pentagram.

In reverent comfort, a gleaming hand rested against its thin streaks, shaped with sinister magic. It was a tender, worshipful touch- but then it pressed harder, knuckles clenching with force-

And then his fingers were gone. Just. _Gone._

The set on the other hand reached for her, as if it required no explanation.

Finally, Francine identified why she didn't catch up to Sammy when she first sought for him- why she could not catch up at all. When he left for the band room, he never made it further than this spot.

Of course, Sammy was perplexed to see her shock; this was the third time he had led her to a portal, after all. It didn't come across his mind that on the previous occasions, she was numb with horror and was just allowing herself to be guided - genuinely a lamb in the arms of its shepherd. But she was more now- a fellow disciple- and she was conscious to this impossibility he now made real.

And since he didn't know, it was assumed that it was his reach that made her pause; he began to retract his revolting, oily hand-

Just as she grabbed it and shut her eyes, gritting her teeth in preparation. She remembered now. She remembered his feet press through a wall, how when he found her alone in the pool of Bendy's flesh and took her to a barrier, only to suddenly reappear somewhere else.

She only asked of him, once again, that she not see it happen.

Two hands- one wet and one dry- closed in on each other, drastically different textures obvious as a white flame glazed over them. The darker one pinched tighter just before dragging them out of existence.

* * *

It was an all-consuming sort of oblivion. As she refused to open her eyes, it was unclear where she was. Would they open to something that was as empty as this seemed to feel? Was it a limbo of some sort, phasing between the walls? She could only feel the goosebumps on her skin.

"Wake up, Francine," a voice hummed.

There was a slit between her eyelids where she saw her trembling hand rattle his arm, trailing up until she saw that well-known mask regard her in either- or both- patience and annoyance. She finally let go of her anchor to turn around and find proof this was real. They were surrounded by yellowed wood and floorboards, a large collection of soup cans shelved by their side…

And a pentagram behind her back.

A shiver crawled up her neck as she realized her wild assumption was entirely correct. It was a quickly interrupted terror.

"It's about time we sing our old songs, my friend."

And without another word, Sammy turned away and walked ahead, as if the portal was merely an obstacle in their path rather than a miracle that had delivered them here.

As she began to follow, the corner of her sight recognized the trench of ink in the first hall to the right. Steps instinctively slowed before adrenaline took over and she ran as fast as possible to step in tandem by Sammy's side.

She never thought she'd see the place where Bendy enveloped her ever again, and so it was far too soon to be here, even in passing.

* * *

The flashing light of the "RECORDING" sign had been waiting for them, burning with enthusiasm as the two approached. Francine seemed to match its vigor, finally comprehending where they were- the place which's draw had led her to Alice in the first place.

…Wait.

"Why are we here?"

As Sammy lifted the vertical tin door to the room, he cast her a look. Oh, he didn't explain, did he?

"It's…best you stay by my side, for now." Certainly, it was his intention even before he came to retrieve the woman that he wanted her to be here with him, having regretted to insist she stay behind in the first place. He hid this truth in another- the sting of his vexation for her. "It seems you can't be trusted to do as you're told."

The chagrin of her actions and the acrimony of being scolded like a child fought over what she should say to that. They found a compromise.

"I didn't intend to leave! I-" She hesitated as Sammy dropped the entrance cover to oppose her, arms crossed and index finger tapping in a rhythm of provocation, anticipating how she could _possibly_ explain herself.

Her chest rose and fell as she realized this anger was the kind of humanity she had wanted from him since when they first fled Alice. Maybe it had been a long time coming, but it had arrived. There was an irony in how the clear return of his personality, once so longed for, now made her upset. Francine held her lip between her teeth just a second before releasing it, finding that honesty was the only acceptable response.

"I was…scared."

The incredulity in his tone was obvious. _"Scared?"_

Their newfound "home" was the safest place he had ever found in this nightmare of a studio. Why wouldn't she be eager to stay, let alone sprint into darkness with no one to be by her side? What madness was _that?_

Her mouth pulled back in thought and her eyes slid to the floor. "Y…yeah." A slow blink came as she tried to recall that flurry of emotions. "When I heard the door close, I realized that I wanted to leave with you and come back, well, here. So, I ran after you until- until I couldn't tell which way I came from." Her fingernails scratched against her knuckles in mindless disquiet. "I called for you and called for you and... you were just… _gone."_

Abruptly, Sammy recognized how hollowed the woman was. It wasn't an excursion of naïve, joyful troublemaking like he had envisioned; she had left to retrieve him and was instead pulled into the embrace of what lay in the studio, like an angler fish luring a nosy creature to its doom. All along he had received tastes of her distress, but it wasn't till now that she realized that maybe, just maybe, she could actually die.

From then on, he would have a conscious reason to pray for Bendy to never allow that.

Her chin lifted as a weight fell gently upon her.

As she did for him in the room with the vent, Sammy had placed a hand onto her shoulder. Compassion wasn't his strong suit, but he didn't need to put forth effort this day…not when what caused her fear had bestowed it to him as well. He felt her slowing tempo of breathing through his palm, witnessing anxiety slide into calm with his touch.

How strange it was that even as the cold struck through her shirt and sank into her skin, that it made her feel a bit warmer inside. At least this time.

How odd it was, too, that he took less and less time to think about offering contact, even when he dreaded what it may bring.

His hand fell back to his side and a small beam upon her face briefly graced him, falling back down as she stepped forward to open the gate.

* * *

His heartbeat pounded until it bounced inside every bit of him, rushing his fingertips. He couldn't ignore the excitement- the mixture of elation and unsureness that swathed his entire body as he made for the instruments. Finally, they would feel her caress, just like they had asked for. Finally, someone besides he would give praise to their lord.

Finally, he wouldn't sing alone.

It was an all-out, teeth baring grin that he kept behind his mask, a level of eagerness he hadn't felt in what must have been years. As his thoughts danced, his feet almost did, moving from instrument to instrument in uncontained whimsy.

Was she a string player? A horn? Piano? Did she even _play?_ Did she even need to?

No, she certainly did not, he decided. The bliss in his heart was enough to assure that. She could learn. And until she did, Bendy would most undoubtedly be pleased another cared to chant his songs at all.

He finally decided on the smaller of their options. Yes, the sharpness of the violin would certainly suit her.

"Here, Francine, come and-"

Behind his back, Francine had begun to stare up at the ceiling, arms raised at her sides as she turned to peer at every corner. He turned just in time to see her spin end in a flourish, plopping to the ground and then laying face-up upon the floor, skyward like it was a picnic blanket underneath the passing of puffy Sunday clouds.

It was so ludicrous that every bit of his passion melted into utter confusion. Little did he know that the love he had for the things around him was not dissimilar; it had been quite a while since she was in a band, but it was a love that would never, ever die. As soon as she saw that box up at the front of the room- the recording booth that housed the oh so familiar shape of a music stand, she was helpless but to feel…

Safe.

Even as a broken banjo was left rested on one of the seats, said seat having been pushed aside as a searcher chased after her, the solace of this room could not be gotten rid of.

Sammy didn't know it, but they both for once had something in common. God bless that this was that something, but for now? He'd only be beside himself at her bizarre show of appreciation.

Hair falling where it may, a dreamy glance returned his as he stood over her in disbelief. All he got in reply was two comedic raises of her eyebrows before pupils returned to their upward stare, a poor but fitting excuse for her silliness.

It wasn't only testiness Sammy felt. It was… foreboding. Dismay. This was time he set aside for his lord. He knew he was watching, listening, waiting. Francine must have caught a glimpse of the tension building up inside him, and so she flashed him a smirk.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch all that. I'm quite…" She flopped a hand upward, congruent to her gaze. "Distracted."

Harmonizing with her childish contentment, the apprehensive man responded with childish curiosity. In search of meaning, Sammy's neck craned to the ceiling. Hm. It didn't…s _eem_ different, nor unusual. It still held the viewing box of the cutouts and the refuge of the projector, but there was nothing else to note.

He gave in to temptation.

"What do you see?" he asked.

Another, slighter elevation of her brow followed, unable to answer in words the kind of peace a change in perspective could bring. Despite being a lesson taught at such an early age, it was one that only reared its head when it was truly needed. Just for a second, memory tainted her expression. She remembered how Gabby would do exactly what she just did almost every time he went somewhere new, as if it was the only proper introduction.

Her painful nostalgia was derailed as she felt something rest next to her.

Unbelievably, Sammy found himself lying down on his back, staring up along with her. She turned her neck to face him, but he either ignored her or didn't recognize her gape as he searched for what she found.

…Well, she supposed that she probably had surprised him just as much, and so she was soothed he had joined her, that her aestheticism wasn't as remote as she thought. It was good to have a friend.

"Isn't it nice?" It was a confounding level of sincerity. He didn't comprehend, and yet he accepted it as true. Even if it did make his mouth slant in annoyance.

Suddenly, a soft laugh erupted. Amid the quiet, it was as loud as a volcano. She had laughed. It was the third time she had done so, but it was the first to move him. He felt his entire face stretch in surprise. Something above them that he just could not see had captured her and brewed delight until it bubbled out of her mouth.

The microphones dripped down like icicles- like dangling threads- and the novelty of it had tickled her to the core. The purest of joys are the humblest, after all, especially within a world where few joys were to be had in the first place.

The chortle had hardly stopped skimming her tongue when a new sound came to be.

"Hey Sammy, I forgot to tell you something."

He did acknowledge her this time, head shifting to lay at its side- or at least as far as it could without the rim of his mask stopping him. Her fixation was upward again, but that sincere smile was still curving her lips open, wisps of eyelashes dipping and raising like gates to her reveries- dams that took and released the marvels she seemed to find around them.

"You know…every time you call me 'Francine,' I feel like I'm in trouble," she confessed with another giggle, eyelids squeezing with humor. "My- uh…" The arc of her lips abruptly faded, the stillness of loneliness taking her cheeks and forcing her expression to drop. "My mom…was the only person that called me 'Francine.'" Her head rolled over again to watch him. "And she only did it, well- when I was in trouble."

She could almost see the concern sweep over him.

"You…told me to call you that. Why then?"

One side of her mouth stretched in guilt and their gazes no longer locked as thoughts flitted inside her mind. The air about her saddened just for a second, but then she returned to him stronger than ever, rapt with jest.

"I guess I haven't stopped feeling like I was in trouble till now."

And then she smiled again. Smiling at _him._ Unbelievable.

"You can-… you can call me 'Frankie.'"

And inexplicably, the tide of memory lapped over his arms as if their recline on the floorboards was really them washing up at the beach of his unconscious. He still saw her, unlike the past occasions she caused him to almost grasp who he was, but there was… _something_ about that last word that took him.

It made him uncomfortable- unbearably aggravated, like a fly that buzzed about his head, landing only long enough for him to end up slapping himself in the skull. It was a name that was accompanied by a trained irritation; he felt his lips pucker slightly in itching displeasure for a word he knew but could not recollect. Little did he know it was only one syllable off from something far, far into his previous life, the ghost of an unnecessary but ever-present frustration that could not be destroyed even in death and rebirth.

An artificial poker face stared back at the woman in awkward pause…until in complete and utter exasperation, Sammy pledged to her:

"I'm not going to call you that."

Maybe it was the curtness, the tone of it, or the fact that it seemed to wittily retort the hell they endured- always being "in trouble." But she did not feel his depths, only his cutting sarcasm, and so she burst into laughter.

Yet again he did not understand, but even so…a chuckle slipped out of him too.

And so, hymns of struggle made way for the wonders of heresy. They forgot their obligation to the savior, and they could ignore the angel's warnings just for a moment, couldn't they?

They could and they did now that for once in their cursed lives, they were okay.


	26. Into the Unknown

**26- Into the Unknown**

" _Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen."_ – Hebrews 11:1

* * *

Now what was that feeling again?

Ah yes- it's like this:

There's a warmth within you that burns like a candle, searching for something outside of yourself in this suffocating darkness. The wax figurine of a body that encompasses your heart drips and drips away until everyone can see what's inside- that flame that shudders much like a firefly dances, yearning for another to fly across the stars with. It's finally made its way through your layers of pain to color the universe, but you never expected that sustaining this beauty would be so hard.

It's just as dreary to be exposed to the elements as it is to remain hidden. It might be even worse; there's a piercing vulnerability in revealing one's core. The billowing wind, once shielded against, can sweep straight through you. It threatens to blow your flame out. And if you aren't careful? Someone can even reach inside your chest to steal it away.

How terrifying it is, then, to allow yourself to receive kindness.

…Why do it at all?

Because this is the very nature of souls. A fire that is kept smothered too long will surely die. And if it dies…

We don't know if it can ever come back.

Yes, it is much scarier to cloak your essence in apathy and bitterness, to breathe out the smoke within you at whoever dares to come too close. This is what many do, though, because one too many times…they had trusted.

What were the disciples going to be like as they leapt together into this abyss of uncertainty?

The two lost to time were laid side by side, only content with their recent miserable existences once they discovered they had each other. Smiles lit their faces and gleamed with the sparks of revival. Sammy had been raised from the dead long ago, but it might have not been until this moment that he had ever truly been alive. Even as his bones drowned in ink, Sammy's wick still flittered somewhere; it was starting to shine through him like a flashlight underneath a few feet of water, dim and yet so bright through a new moon's glitter. This gift from Francine kept her living, too. Surely it would tear her apart more than any monster could to deny herself the embrace of companionship, and so it was either fate or her determination that led her to find it in the most unexpected of places. She loved the way this nestled in her arms like a bird seeking shelter in winter's storm; it made her feel…meaningful. And so for that feeling, she'd endure the perils of sincerity. Maybe he would, too.

But we cannot forget that other beings lurked these caverns as well, not knowing what they searched for but doing so regardless. It was all left in them as they waited for salvation. But beasts are only beasts as long as it is believed they are, and their souls still burn no matter how deep they've been buried in doubt.

To be truly human is to be afraid, but to push on anyway. So it was for all of the studio, new and old. Time may erode memory, but not who you are.

Such is it to have faith.


	27. Prayers to the Willow

**27- Prayers to the Willow**

" _Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life."_ \- Proverbs 13:12

* * *

And so they were laid upon the floor of the music department, just as we left them. The disciples had put aside the burdens of veneration, but they would soon return- return through the light that accompanied her arrival, green with renewed faith.

It began halfway through a chuckle. The woman felt something push into her thigh as she rolled over to her side to face Sammy-

And abruptly, the pressure she felt and the man before her clicked into a single concept. She realized something; she realized how as he had gifted her his wisdom and protection, she could gift him something of her own.

A beautiful, terrifying idea came to be.

She sat straight up and pulled her phone out of her pocket. Her eyes were wide- too wide for Sammy's comfort. As he saw Francine's shoulders rise in heavy breath, he sat up too, carrying a frown laced with concern.

This was so sudden. Just a second ago they had been laughing, filled with ease, and now every muscle in her seemed taunt. As he studied her, the movements of her hands were noticed- sharp and abrupt presses and slides over the surface in her hands, like she conducted an orchestra waiting in the small box. It…

It was… _moving_ with each touch.

Without thought, Sammy's upper body leaned towards the woman and her glass book. The tension in her body was released only through each and every lithe, practiced swipe of her fingers. He watched words come and go underneath their tips; shapes and pictures danced in and out of sight as the slightest of gestures seemed to push them off the edge of the screen, but they turned invisible as they tumbled off its edge.

The assurance she had provided before their... "adventure" with Alice was a band-aid over a pothole dug three feet deep. The absolute bafflement and unbearable confusion from when she saw her in the ink trench bathed in illumination had rightfully returned. How ironic was it that as he showed her the miraculous - the impossible- so had she to him.

And so despite the promise that she controlled…this… _wizardry_ , he was helpless to his fear. He knew not what this power was…w _hose_ it was. Not Bendy nor the realm of the studio had shown magic quite like this; that unsureness left him speechless.

Her fingers stopped moving, and in his peripheral her torso had shifted. His gaze finally broke as she was revealed to be overcome with excitement; as her mouth broadened, it also began to curl, the top row of her teeth tugging back her bottom lip until it was released to mutter a voice that seemed as awed as he.

Her look fell up and down over him, one last view before she changed his life once again.

"What's your favorite song?"

…Oh.

The frown remained where it was, but his entire demeanor was stilled- frozen as puzzlement seemed to stack upon itself.

But to top it off?

Sammy pursed his lips once he finally understood that the words in her question actually had a meaning. A meaning…to _him_. For once, he had an answer ready to grasp. Forgetting to wonder why she'd ask this at all, he remembered that a certain bit of him was calling out through his inky abyss of a mind. He was reluctant- it was a remnant of himself he didn't know existed till this moment- but he permitted its release to her eager embrace. He hoped it was good to trust. Only one way to find out.

" _Willow…Weep For Me,"_ he hardly uttered, words on his tongue like a wisp of wind. He felt the chill of nostalgia on his lips, somehow colder than the emptiness that usually occupied him.

And almost as if she felt the wind of vulnerability blow through her too, she mellowed like a candle on the sill of an open window one rainy afternoon. Her eyelids dropped in a slow, knowing blink, and small dimples appeared at her cheeks. No, she'd never really comprehend what he felt. But this was probably as close as she could to, and it softened her through and through just as quickly as she had been sparked alight.

But almost just as soon, her countenance shifted.

"I'm afraid I…don't know that one."

As was his way, Sammy's response was a thought unfiltered by words, only expressible through action. Her head turned to follow as he lifted himself off the floorboards and stepped over her legs; it tilted as he trudged to the corner, near that recording booth with a tape next to it. Finally, it rose with her body as she joined him by his side.

His fingers parted from each other as they strived to find their proper place on the piano's keys. It took a long time, but one of the things the woman's uncoated form had reminded him was that he used to have five fingers on each hand instead of four. As instinct came with memory, the impulses he felt were like phantom pains- telling him to place his fingers where they could not possibly be all at once.

Or at least they couldn't now that two were missing.

The arch in his back as she watched over his shoulder seemed to bend tighter at this, a tangible show of his lament and frustration- a reminder of why he prayed day after day that this all would end one way or another.

"You okay?"

Francine was leaned over, slanted to gaze at the player in anticipation. His cracked head turned to her, and he was silent. Suddenly, he forcefully hung it back over his misshapen hands, his fires refueled as he recalled the desire that set his passion ablaze in the first place.

Spite and determination had been the driving force of talent in the life of Sammy Lawrence the music director, and they had morphed to birth the faith that kept Bendy's loyal prophet from sinking into total despair. He had taught himself to play every instrument a few fingers short; translating a song on the rim of his consciousness was nothing compared to the damnation it'd be to fall prey to the waiting jaws of idleness and hopelessness. No, he would not- could not- be complacent to his curse.

And so he finally touched the keys and filled the quiet with the noise of his heart.

It was…surprising. A surprising sound- not at all what Francine expected. For some reason, her understanding of older tunes skipped straight from the classical period to the folk songs of the 60s. As such, she didn't know exactly what era of time Sammy was pulled from, but it was now clear to even she that he was still there.

They were both taken aback with the recognition that his soul was being inserted into each press of the keys. They could see it in how gently his arms swayed in perfect marriage with the melody, flowing so naturally despite only just recovering a love long lost. With her dawning amazement, they could witness it wander from a mouth trembling from the exposure he allowed.

His singing voice was…it was…

Unexpected.

His cool tone held a tint of sweetness; the airiness of his voice was displayed as the perfect medium for the sad whimsy of the lyrics. As each word fell in tandem with each note of the piano, he weaved a poem. Despite being sharp and plucky like a playground rhyme, it was undoubtedly a song about suffering. It fit Sammy very well; it begged for sympathy from the largest, looming figure in one's life- the being that towered and draped its shadow over those seeking refuge at its feet.

It was a song that knew no one else would listen as he wept.

And yet there was…solace. Even as the chirpiness of it superficially seemed to bite with sarcasm, it was certainly a psalm true to his misery. As the last note rang, its tremor drifting further away from them to scatter throughout the walls, the anxiety in his fingers did not leave him…but they did seem to find some peace, a scrap of hope to cling to and reassure that he was still a being of some competence. His chest compressed, and he released a sigh seeped in relief and weariness. He did it. Once again, he proved to himself that there was indeed a human buried somewhere inside him, and that Bendy must have sympathy for the anguish of disciples.

In just a few minutes, he gave Francine a gist of how someone could give their all to a behemoth that didn't seem to pay immortals much mind.

Even as he had made his heart bare, Sammy kept his skull suspended over the scratched piano. He didn't know what to say or do next; he was simply left behind with his hollow victory. And so the woman decided it was the least she could do to help him step back to reality.

"Sammy, that was…" She looked him over once again, observing the state he was left in after demonstrating a pure, utter mastery he humbly uncovered. "That was _incredible."_

There was no understatement in this. Her musical comprehension was crude- a sketch compared to his finalized painting of melodious ideation. How telling it was that even through decades of isolation, Sammy retained a might that could enrapture Francine, someone only recently removed from an existence saturated with music almost every waking minute, as was the way for all those not swallowed by the ink all those years ago. Maybe it only made sense though. He was, after all, a maestro at his core.

It was enough for her to forget what her intentions were, what brought them to this point.

…Just for a moment.

The atmosphere of the room would soon teeter into to one of complete enchantment, a charm that seemed to war against the drear pulsed from the ink machine.

"I have to show you something," she had said.

And then everything changed.

She stood behind his back as he sat in front of the speckled keys, rounding her arm beside his neck to place the phone a small distance from his face. It no longer required her touch to swish pictures in and out of reality. The visage of an orchestra now swayed before him- and actual band, filtered by the yellow of aging film and flickering spots of black alongside cracks in the audio.

His jaw dropped and he began to peer so close to the tiny movie screen that a glow splashed over his mask.

Francine smiled as the rectangle portal carried Sammy back home, his favorite song calling back to him through a passage ages away, trapped in another universe.

And then this became the day she fully explained to Sammy what her phone was as best as she could- its blessing of connectivity, its union of parts of time and space that could never exist all at once but somehow, still did…much like she and him. With a small, guiding grin, she let him hold and experiment with the screen, granting him her alchemy; they were consumed with his reaction to modernity, her gentle bestowment of the nearly unlimited. Somehow, she was able to avoid the topic of reuniting with her family. Thankfully he did not think to ask why she hadn't used it for such communication, but…the fantastical nature of his amazement and curiosity was still tinged with her remorse.

Yes, it could bring them the world, but that was still only so much. It was a magnificent, treacherous moment for them both to see shades of the outside world stain but not remove the scourge of the studio and fill them with something beyond their reach.

And yet, it was all worth it to play song after song from Sammy's past- to see how his fingertips reverently patted at the images of men rising the bells of their horn to the sky, feeling the vibration of sounds from his history emerge through the speaker.

Although neither of them would ever fully understand the other, they both managed to trek past the fogs of grief so they may find a friend.

Maybe this was Bendy's answer to his eternities of prayer, and maybe it was bringing him closer and closer to the person he was intended to be.


	28. Regret

**28- Regret**

" _Be not far from me, for trouble is near; For there is none to help."_ \- Psalm 22:11

* * *

The impression of the violin's strings was still digging into her fingertips as she and Sammy exited the band room, fresh from her first lesson. Had she ever picked up a violin before? No. Any string instrument at all? No. Did it sound like something besides a dying eagle? No. But would Bendy still enjoy it regardless?

Absolutely, Sammy had said.

Her cheeks still burned red with embarrassment- a reaction to Sammy's frustration. And yet despite her atrocious start, he was…patient.

" _There, just like that."_

" _Good."_

" _No, no-! Here. Like this… No, put it_ here. _And now-! …Better."_

Of course, at least every other word out of his mouth was tinged with irritation, but to hear his satisfaction was…fulfilling. Francine could think of a few reasons why as he walked ahead into the main hall of the music department, the glaze of his shoulders shifting with each step under the overhead lights. One, he was talented- truly, sincerely, and utterly talented. He could pluck the banjo like he was casting a spell; he had just swept his arms over the piano like his very presence brought it to life, its driving purpose to sing what he could not tell. His mastery- her undying admiration for him and all like him- was obvious. So what was the second thing?

The weight of esteem sunk down her torso with a catch and release of the dusty air.

She was glad to spend time with him like this. In the entrails of the studio, there was no choice to simply dissolve, to submit and to die once and for all. If one had to suffer an eternity of hope- of the constant breathlessness one feels as a child does waiting for the last school bell to ring- it was certainly ideal to spend it with someone you aren't afraid of.

…Someone you aren't afraid of.

She paused at this notion, arrested mid-step. Francine's comfort melted away as Sammy noticed and returned his gaze, curious and concerned.

As the torn, roughed face of Bendy looked back upon her, the pains of the angel rung in her ears. She could see once again Alice's scowl stare down at Francine while addressing Sammy. She remembered…she remembered the angel disagreeing with everything she believed the prophet to be.

" _You found another toy, didn't you?"_

Her heart skipped a beat, and Sammy turned to face her, silent.

"… _I haven't heard that name in a very…very…long time."_

She felt her lip tremble with her pulse as his head tilted, wondering.

" _I thought you gave that name to our 'savior.' You know, like everything else about you?"_

Sammy's hand raised, reaching to the woman. In the sudden culmination of everything that had led Francine to participate in his worship of Bendy, a flash of doubt stuck her like a sword through the gullet.

" _Not that you had much to give in the first place."_

Her physical recoil at his reach would bring worst feeling Sammy ever had.

He was left alone, observing his fingers outstretched as the image of his friend hyperventilating rested ahead, purposefully avoiding his consolation.

His reaction to her hers was enough to bring her back.

No. No.

As she could sense sadness and repulsion towards his own nature wash over him, she remembered that he was different now. He needed to be. It was the only explanation. She _shouldn't_ be afraid of him.

He observed her expression of dawning fear melt away, leaving her brow furrowed and her mouth open in thought.

What was Alice talking about, then?

Ah yes, this topic couldn't be avoided any longer. And with it came mysteries decades old that anyone that had been here a second more than Francine would be too fearful to so much as touch them.

* * *

"I'm…I'm really sorry."

His spine rested backwards, vertebrae and shoulder blades skimming against the "MUSIC DEPARTMENT" sign, a smaller print of "DIRECTOR: SAMMY LAWRENCE" teasing beside his waist. His head was hung in such a matter that it only could look at his crossed arms and his outstretched leg, the other bent at the knee and pressed where the wall met the floor. He was shuddering, and she knew then the absolute harm she had unleashed.

Of course, any fear was reasonable in this place, but…

The way the corner of his mouth pushed into his cheeks, allowing his teeth to glimmer ever so slightly, reminded her that fear still had consequences.

Watching his body language with utmost care- still not enough to make up for what had just occurred- the woman approached his side and paralleled his lean, eventually lowering her own stare to her folded hands. Her face was red again, but the twang of guilt that accompanied it felt so much more punishing than any awkwardness had been earlier. Francine was experiencing the regret of allowing her doubt physical manifestation- just a second long enough for his own to be born. And unlike hers, his was not going away.

They both felt so small, alone, standing next to each other, trying to imagine what could possibly come next.

"I'm really sorry," she could only say again.

The flesh underneath his fingers was slightly malleable, small dents created by their force. They deepened just a little more at her words, and he sighed. The edge of his lips was round and dark against the grey backdrop of the studio once he turned a little further away.

Oh god, what could she say?

Her own lips were sucked inward under her teeth, scraping as she tried to uncover the best relief she could provide.

…The truth.

"I was…I was thinking about…Alice."

He gasped quietly, shoulders raised and chin twitching her direction. She didn't know what this meant- nor what Alice meant for the matter- but this seemed better somehow. And so Francine continued.

"She seems to…know a lot about you."

It was a simple statement that dropped a truth much heavier than she ever intended. Alice… _did_ know a lot about him. The woman's next words were both a verbalization of puzzlement as well as a plea to understand.

"She knows you, Sammy."

She witnessed his mouth close, and his glare returned to his legs.

"…I suppose she does." And nothing more.

His next gasp was much louder and his next raise of the head much quicker as his grip was joined by hers, her hold tightening his forearm.

"She knew your _name."_

And suddenly it was all unavoidable. The heart-racing comprehension of the incomprehensible was now a shared experience, and her actions of bitterness melted into those of overwhelming anxiety through his perspective. In the back of his head, he thanked Bendy it wasn't him that she feared.

But this would mean that Alice knew his name… _before he knew his._

As his demeanor warped to match this new distress, her grasp softened. As she saw the quiver of his arms return, a strange and unexpected determination crawled into her.

"I want… I think…" She gulped away her apprehension; one needed to be as willful as possible for what she was daring to say.

"We need to talk to her."

And even though Sammy stared at her in utter shock, they both believed her to be right. But…but…

"How?" he questioned incredulously, smuggling his foreboding of the unknown behind proper logic. "She hates me, Francine." Almost soundlessly, he added, "She hates everyone." Firm so he may convey the proper level of danger, his mask swayed to look down upon her. "I…I didn't-…"

Oh, how it frightened her to see him so unsure of his words. She caught a glimpse of an exhale, steadying him for the inevitable.

"There's a reason I didn't want you to know she existed. She's… _directly_ opposed to Bendy and his mercy." He leaned towards her, desperate to communicate his dread. "Gentle sheep shouldn't know they stray so close to the clutches of evil."

Her blood turned to ice as his hand moved to caress the side of her face. It was so mindlessly intimate, unfiltered as he was overpowered by so many terrible possibilities. His voice quaked with an unprecedented amount of disturbance, hardly audible through his realization.

"I could never be forgiven if I let you die, not after all Bendy did to bring you to me."

Breathless.

Shaking.

Scared.

Not Sammy nor Francine had consciously acknowledged till this moment exactly what she had brought to him. It was…a lot. A lot to take in in such a short moment.

His tenderness made her sharp with resolve.

"You- you still should know, Sammy." The woman frowned up at him, an effort to force away his sheltering of both her and himself. "You deserve to know."

Taken aback, his hand gradually lowered to his side. The two disciples stared at their mirror, faith in one another battling with care.

He had one last attempt in him to sway her from danger. It would instead deliver her straight to it.

"The angel has never listened to me, and never will. My very presence would dissuade any measure of reconciliation."

Francine's eyes slid to the floor. He was right. The mere mention of his name was enough for Alice Angel to retrieve every shred of compassion she seemed to have for the mortal, replacing it with odium for each little thing that happened next. No, she had to admit, Sammy seemed unable to coax a single word of clemency from her, and clemency was what they asked for.

The ink man saw her face soften, and he loosened in relief. It was so short lived.

"Then I'll go without you."

* * *

What a horrible compromise they had made, he realized as he saw her figure shrink smaller and smaller as she trudged ahead. He should have been with her, but he could not. It was the only way this could bring about even the lightest dash of wisdom Alice seemed to possess.

Did he really want this that badly?

His fingers creased as they held the edge of the entrance, growing more and more taunt with each creak of the staircase she stepped on. Soon, the "HEAVENLY TOYS" banner was directly over her head. She looked back at him. Even so far away, her expression was visible. Eyes wide with stress, fists balled in anticipation…mouth curved in reassurance.

Francine had promised that if she thought she needed him, she'd scream. He recalled the nervous humor that glinted over her as she reminded him that he knew how loud she could scream.

He asked himself once again: did he really want this that badly?

Yes, it was true that he had hid from himself- since the moment he saw Francine at the angel's feet- that she seemed to know things about him that he did not. He did want to know, of course. There seemed to be a reason she loathed Sammy and all associated with him…besides her obvious but inexplicable vexation for Bendy. But no, that couldn't be all of it. Not anymore, not after what she had said.

The woman gradually shifted her head forward to the workshop, shoulders raising and falling in preparation, but she could never be ready. She slipped into the darkness and out of his sight.

No, he didn't want this nearly as much as she did.

* * *

The shelf was aside as she had left it. It accepted her entrance but…somehow seemed to whisper she should not. She pushed past this invisible barrier to reach into the angel's light.

The screening room was dark. A few shards of glass shone on the floor, a soft glow reflecting the visage of cartoons above on the TVs, same as before. But Francine faced a roadblock she never considered.

In the space ahead before filled, no one was left standing.

"Alice?"

The woman recognized how quiet her call was. She inhaled to say it again, but it was released in a yelp at the next occurrence.

" _Francine_ , was it?' A voice fuzzed from a speaker overhead. "What…a _lovely_ surprise this is. And so soon…!"

The mortal glowered, unsure if this was sarcasm or not, but shook her head; it did not matter. "I…I-I need to talk to you." She closed her eyes, trying to calm. "P-please."

It was such a terrifying silence until the speaker crackled again in reply.

"It's about Sammy, isn't it?"

Indeed it was. Maybe Alice could see her face, because not a word needed to be said for confirmation.

"I…"

Francine stared at the speaker with such great intensity that her eyes burned.

"…I understand. You have my _deepest_ apologies about before. To you, not him." One could almost hear her sneer. _"There's someone I think you should talk to. Oh don't_ look so incredulous; of course there's someone else that knows Sammy."

Regardless of it is was a jeer or a genuine inquiry, the next question shook Francine to her core.

"How much did he k _eep secret from you_ , little cherub?"

There wasn't enough time to realize how fast her pulse was, how much her eyes blinked over and over and over in shock.

"You can find him on Level 14, right out of the elevator up ahead." Sickeningly sweet, turning her stomach. _"He's a kindly man, one who knew Sammy very well. I'm sure he'll be willing to help you."_

And the speaker clicked, signaling the end of the siren's lure. Francine was downright vibrating with trepidation. She had to go back and tell all this to Sammy-

" _Where are you doing, dear? T_ he elevator is the other way."

It hadn't even been a second of looking back before Alice made this comment; yes, she was certainly watching.

Dear god.

This was a crossroads. The woman could go back to Sammy, either in retreat or to inform him that she'd be going…who in the hell knows where. Definitely further than she had imagined, that was for fucking sure. Would he be able to hear her scream even one room further in than planned?

But…if she did go back, would she lose this opportunity for good? Would Alice ever speak to her again? Would she tell…this… _someone_ not to speak to her, either?

Which would be worse: to divulge Sammy's presence, or to completely discard it?

Her gut made that choice before her head could.

As she went deeper into the castle of toys, a swear under the woman's breath was accompanied by the chirp of her guardian angel.

"Oh, by the way? His name is Norman."


	29. A Friend

**29- A Friend**

" _Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to act."_ \- Proverbs 3:27

* * *

How soon was it that there came yet another fork in the road.

"THE DEMON"

"THE ANGEL"

Francine both physically and mentally leaned from one side to the other, trying to figure out which way seemed safest. The left- the demon- seemed darker from this angle, but…

A small giggle rang from overhead.

…Angels weren't exactly the most uplifting concept at this moment. Might as well investigate her choices, right?

And so Francine stepped into the most hellish of the paths. It would soon be clear it wasn't only hell as a metaphor. Her heart nearly jumped into her throat as she found the hauntingly familiar sight of a hallway totally entrenched in ink. No way. No way she'd go through that again, and so she turned around so she may take the journey of angels.

 _Pah-tunk!_

"…You've got to be kidding."

No, whomever had the power to open and close the routes of this studio's past was certainly not fooling around. The entry of the heavenly lane had closed shut. Francine lifted and lifted the metal gate until her fingers ached, and not even a few kicks of frustration could unhinge it.

 _Shit and goddammit._

From where she stood, a sliver of the doorway stared at her like a slit eye. And it was then she recognized that a hero's epoch to great treasure required every drop of bravery one possessed.

Feeling the voice on her tongue waver in fear, she made the decision to take out her phone and press "play" on her music shuffle. As she stepped into the river Styx once more, she hoped it could calm both her and whatever monsters lied in wait once she broke through their veil.

* * *

" _Now that…is a beautiful, and positively silly thought."_

The last three words drifted out to her more quietly than the others, either a consolation or a warning to an odd girl that just wanted to feel like a person again. She memorized the printed name and the sound of the tape, pondering this psalm.

Maybe Norman would be able to tell her about Joey, too. She wondered if he was with them somewhere, isolated within his own little slice of a haven in this perdition like everyone else seemed to do.

More so, she hoped that there wasn't a reason Sammy hadn't mentioned him either.

Someone was left with the weight of yet another upon their shoulders, yet another that deserved to be saved. But what could they do?

* * *

First, the splatter of ink pouring down the middle of a ceiling, unavoidable like a baptism, resting upon her shoulder like a kind touch of the hand.

Next, a turn around the corner with Bendy after Bendy in procession, his delighted sneer plastered to stare at every angle, never ceasing his vigilant watch of the being that had intruded his realm.

Then, a toyshop filled with ink so thick it piled like snow plowed to the side of a road after a blizzard, settling over and around shelves and giant dolls. " _Tick tick tick tick tick!"_ the dancing clocks had chanted like criers for a king…or watchdogs of a warden.

Despite all these things, she only ever thought about…well…she supposed she was thinking about everyone, but especially of her friend. She was trapped in the bleakest of worlds with a man that knew nothing about himself besides that he was not who he was intended to be. There was an angel who did carry such knowledge, but she was so scornful of the prophet that it had to be considered what happened in a past life to merit her fury. Yes, the woman trusted Sammy- the good nature left to him now must certainly be the core of his essence- but…

…He must have done something that hurt her.

A hand gripped around the railing that traced one last room before she'd descend to Norman. She let her phone rest upon it, too, its weak speaker somehow enough to spread notes all around the chamber. She felt like a warrior seeking for a mythical seer to guide her way, begging for answers so that she may survive.

Francine felt her pulse pluck the inside of her wrists as she looked past them, down to the strikingly massive elevator; with the lyrics of this song fading away in a finale, she noted that it seemed to have been enough to pacify the dark beasts of the studio. A sigh passed her lips in gratitude, and she paused the music for good.

She wandered down the stairs and entered her cage, the angel calling from overhead a final time to remind her that it was Level 14.

* * *

There was a strange purr of emptiness here after that long journey down. And it seemed like…it seemed like…

Another universe.

She stood at the top of a tower overseeing a cavity somehow even bigger and more vacant than the entrance to Heavenly Toys. It took her breath away- as well as any hint of confidence she had before. Francine was so small now; she never noticed how less vulnerable one was when the walls seemed to be closing in. Now that they were as wide as a clearing in a forest, she felt like a young deer, unknowing and unseeing of dangers ready to pounce from the shade.

She had to keep going though, not just for Sammy but for herself. This was her life now, she realized with prickling dismay. She had lost her family by her own volition and mercy, and so these beings of disgusting immortality were all she had left- at least for now. And so, she felt she needed to understand them and this existence, as what the people of the murk possessed was now and forever hers to bear as well.

"God help me," she whispered to someone outside of herself.

And they would.

* * *

This voice was different, but of course it was; she hadn't heard it before. Still, it was…unexpected.

Norman Polk spoke about himself in such a way that she could not deem if he was speaking about the projectionist in the life of the studio or of one present after its death. Her head lifted, absorbing the overwhelming abyss. Yeah, this must be the place. As the recording clicked in a finish, however, she had to ask herself:

Where to start?

Again, a right and a left. Gosh, there were so many of these, and the repetition of this decision was wearing her down to the bone. Well, she went left once, might as well go left again.

It was such an unbearably dark hall. Distracted, she splashed just a bit too forcefully as she stepped forward; it made her shudder to feel the biting, cold ink drip down her ankle. A compulsion came over, her phone already again in hand and ready to turn on its flashlight…before a thought came. The tape said…he liked the dark? Or at least stayed in it. Truthfully, it wasn't well understood, extremely vague to the woman's limited acquaintance to the studio.

She squinted a bit, noticing a flicker just up ahead. A pale shape solidified before her as she approached, and she found a projector was sitting on a low table. Her gaze trailed with its light until she beheld its picture.

It was so unsettling, even as she comprehended that somehow, someway, electronics seemed to maintain their spark, just like…-

She slipped her phone back to its pocket, content with the tease of streaming lights she could glimpse up ahead. Maybe it was nonsense, but the logic of this whole building seemed to be that anyway. And so, she resolved to walk forward without mixing her luminescence with that of a man she wished not to upset upon meeting.

Despite the sloshing of her feet, the noises around her again seemed to match the pace of her heartbeat or vice versa. She never recognized before the clattering of the projectors was so loud, so fast, at least when the only other sounds were that of her steps and-

Wait.

She stopped where she was, flooded with the yellowed film of cartoons intended for a wall by her side. She listened.

Something was moving.

Delicately, she crept around the next corner. Yet more streams of cream, fuzzy light waited ahead. But…

Yes, something was _definitely_ moving over there. One of the rays bobbed up and down ever so slightly, its source out of sight. Was it..?

"Norman?"

The beam ahead stilled…but nothing more. Her fists clenched. This was suddenly so much harder; a first call of curiosity left her mouth with ease, but it was dawning upon her that it was really, truly, falling upon someone's ears.

"Norman? I'm Fran-…Francine. Alice sent me- sent me too-"

Her lips shook just as much as her sureness did. God, who was he anyway? Why in the hell did she just agree to come here without asking the angel a single question? She felt her head tremble, strands of hair shifting unpleasantly onto the sweat of her temple, but she was already too bothered by what was ahead to pay mind.

The light seemed to tilt at its source, almost like a cocked head listening in thought. Whatever was going on, Norman seemed to…be waiting. For what? What else could she say?

And in this moment, she made yet another strange, stupid decision. Maybe if it did something to the searchers, it could help here, too…

And so she began to hum. Despite the back of her mind begging her to stop- that it may be demeaning this person's intelligence- it was certainly more for herself. It was the only thing that seemed to keep her composed nowadays, the single ability at her disposal to survive the suffocating blackness and its fiends. A tinge of firmness gradually came to her voice, remembering how Alice said they were blessed with song- that it was what made them human. She felt something akin to the hope and desperation Sammy held when he prayed to his lord, teaching himself again and again that lifeless life could still have purpose.

As the melody parted ways, lingering through the halls like a bottle of red dye dumped at her toes and spreading wherever the flow of ink led. She watched as one trail seemed to lead around the corner, towards the organically stirring radiance.

It jumped up, scattering its ray more towards the woman's direction. Her growing smile fled as soon as it came once a deafening, unholy screech drenched the room.

This wasn't a man, not by her mortal standards. She had just enough time to comprehend that much as she almost fell over herself running away, a strand of light blinding her eyes as something shadowy beneath it rushed with unfathomable speed to do…to do…

She didn't want to imagine what this thing could do to her.

Thank goodness she spotted a box in the corner of her sight just as she passed it. Francine threw the door open to the Little Miracle Station and likewise hurled herself inside, yanking the entry shut with all her might. But the overwhelming, all-consuming light soon flooded inside, that small window in the door still enough for the gape of this creature to fall upon the woman. Dust flickered like static around her beneath its illumination, matching the noise she heard just a foot or two from where she sat.

She had felt hopeless, powerless many a time during her visit to the studio, but it was never as dreadful as this. A mixture of yelling and sobbing scratched up her throat as she held herself around the legs, fingernails digging into the material of her pants in anxiety. She was going to die. She was going to die.

She didn't notice the glow soften as she grew sharper and sharper with distress.

And then, the worst kind of confirmation filled her soul as she noticed just in time the wood of her refuge rattle…until the creature managed to fling open the door, a crack thundering as it surely became unhinged. She was now fully enveloped in their sickly fire.

It was so much more horrid, however, to _feel_ the vibration of her cries seep through fingers as they clasped around her throat and onto her mouth. Every fiber of her being poured into her screams. Even as she knew Sammy couldn't hear her, this was all she could do to save herself.

Palms, like leather soaked in water, rubbed against her skin.

…

…

…

And the grip that could snap her life in two still yet to do so.

Painfully, her eyes fluttered open to look at blazing nothingness. The red veins of her eyelids flashed with each blink as her innate curiosity quieted her shrieks into soft yelps. Most of her force went straight into her heart now, creating a rhythm that pushed back at the hands that pressed not gently, but carefully back.

No, it wasn't her blinded eyes playing games hand in hand with her adrenaline. She could not wink away the sight of a movie projector- just like the others- seated upon the shoulders of a man desperate to feel what she possessed. Wires weaved in and out of their body as if threaded by a needle, and mechanical parts that should exist amid no flesh and blood were exposed as much as she was.

Their…their… " _head"_ tilted as she began to quiet, overlooking her like a stranger upon a frightened, lost child. It took a very long time to realize that whatever motivated their touch…was not her death.

Nor her silence.

One large fingertip rested beside her lips, the remaining ones upon that hand curled and tense around the spotted side of her jaw. The left hand laid its thumb at her neck; a single, downward jab would have been enough to crush her spine. But that's not what he wanted, was it?

She wasn't the only one shaking as his hands kept searching, uninterrupted by the tears rolling beneath his caress. It had stopped. Where did it go? Did she still have it?

The man could not remember, but he still knew- he still knew there was something about this that was special, and he craved for more impulsively.

The vibration had been replaced by another pulse inside her, much less shrill but still prevailing as it drummed under her skin. It beat faster as he slid his left hand from her throat to her collarbone, the source of this low throbbing that made every inch of her alive.

As he did this, Francine maybe began to understand- just a little, through the fog of absolute fear in the face of the glaring unknown.

A projector…a projector…

… _The projectionist._

"…Norman? Are you Norman?"

The woman yelped once again as hands returned to her face, rough with excitement. Her eyes shook in their sockets, unsure what to make of this, uncomprehending what he wanted of her. But momentarily, that didn't matter. The advice of the angel echoed through her mind just after the name of this being did.

"D-do you know who Sammy is?!"

He only shifted his hands again around her face to better feel the sounds. As if it could see, the projector from up high minutely nodded up and down…not as an answer but to look her over in wonder.

"Norman?"

Nothing besides than his watching and waiting for more, a small crackle emerging from the speaker in his chest.

And that was when Francine realized he couldn't tell her a thing.

"God," she whispered breathlessly, every opening of her face wide in shock and horror. Like every other soul here besides she, Norman was a broken, deformed shell of the person he used to be. The black magic of the ink tainted his blood and tried to strip him of humanity.

As with the others, it did not entirely succeed, but the remnants it left him made it all the more excruciating.

It was so…much more terrifying than the others, somehow, how the curse of the studio carved him into a plaything. He had no mouth to speak with, and his only voice was the static at his heart. Being so much to accept in this brief second, she had begun to cry again, but these tears served a very different purpose than those just a moment before.

Unswayed by anything but the immediate environment and the animalistic drives of a previous life, Norman began to stop rummaging over her face so he may cup it in his hands. She was untouched and unaltered, nothing like he'd ever seen. Witnessing it was like looking upon heaven itself.

He couldn't hear a thing; the vibrations of sounds were what he had learned to sense and find. And hers were like no other. Both the projectionist and the intruder were frightened, awed, and pained at each other's presence, filled with emotions that had no place in what should have been two unassuming existences. She was so weary with revelation that only pity allowed her hands to clasp his; she squinted upward to look him in the eye despite there being none, as it was the least she could do…and yet the most. He merely adjusted as she did so, maintaining his hold around her cheeks. But it was still enough of a reaction to seed a small consideration in her heart.

And through its depths, both for herself and the projectionist, this heart knew it had nothing to give besides another song.

It was…so difficult to make it out. So strenuous to keep herself from totally breaking apart in his grasp- not because of the strength he surely had but because of how frail she was observing person after person have something taken away from them that they never should have lost in the first place. Her refrain was a plea for forgiveness from someone that realized much too late the uncertainties human nature laid its foundation upon. How that there was nothing she could do for a being seemingly constructed for someone else's amusement and then discarded without a second thought.

Someone built a friend, gave him an old projector for a head. But he couldn't have stayed stable all alone as he was now.

" _And we had so much fun together. We thought we'd be friends forever. And we had so much fun together. We had so much fun."_

His light had grown dimmer and dimmer as the lullaby drew to a close, the last verse not even audible from her moving lips. But it didn't need to be; he felt it physically, and she felt it spiritually. That was enough.

" _I built a friend."_

The small world of this box and the creature in its doorway seemed to contain every drop of sadness and naivety. The sense of parenthood from before exchanged from the larger to the smaller of the two by the time it was quiet once more. And they stayed there for a minute or so, her soft sobs cradled in his hands, he unwittingly comforting her as she had tried to comfort him. His gaze could no longer be met in this exhausting moment, but his hold was so solid that all she could do was shut her eyes and pray.

The moist, callous fingers stroked one last time before finally lingering off her face, content with her gift. The biggest searcher of all had found what he yearned for, what he first felt in the walls when she arrived, and he was satiated. Forever wordless, he still knew what Francine had brought was something good to have. Something he used to love, and still did…even if it would never be the same.

And so after all that had happened, the mortal was the one granting mercy instead of receiving it like she had been promised. But he seemed to need it more than she, so that became her sole consolation.

The projectionist's looming figure retracted from the booth, one hand lowering to grip her arm. Once again, it was not tender, but it was indeed never to harm. An instinct for music came with an instinct for appreciation, and so he pulled her from the booth and led her away.

She needn't know how unusual it was for his grasp to not rip her apart.

* * *

Francine looked back one last time at Norman as he stood no further than between the two entryways of the maze. He only stared, his body stiff as the light of his skull glinted and fuzzed around her being. Still hot and burning from tears, she managed to slowly give him a wave, the slightest of smiles fighting back the tides of despair. He seemed satisfied with such a small goodbye, crackling in reply as he turned away and lurched back to his chasms, neither hoping to see her again nor wondering who she was. Maybe he would long for that later, but for now this was enough for a man devoid of everything he once held dear. Norman had never been difficult to please in life, either.

One last breath rose and fell from her, the hand she waved with now pressed at her chest in deliberation.

No, not only that, she realized.

As she too faced a new direction to a new fate, resolve whipped around her like a hailstorm. She didn't get what she here came for, but thanks to Norman, she knew where it could be found.

She approached the elevator one more time, off to see Alice.


	30. By God's Grace

**30- By God's Grace**

"' _The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.'"_ – Exodus 14:14

* * *

He remembered, and once again this memory pierced him to his core. But unlike before, these recollections were…recent, in a way. They were the images of past society captured like a bug in amber, held in Francine's young hands. The glinting horns that swayed in harmony; the faded, blurred recording of a couple swing dancing; and the-…

As it came time to reminisce the sounds she immersed them in, he found it difficult to find words that properly conveyed such revolutionary emotion. Besides a few old records and radios that could hardly play at all, he had been deprived for the vast majority of his life the joy of someone playing music for _him._ Maybe that's why he was so determined to make his own- a spiteful vengeance against the forces that wanted him to just lay down and die, even when they knew that was just not possible.

Shoulderblades grazed against the wall he leaned onto, not even an inch away from the doorway to Heavenly Toys, but not daring to go any further lest it somehow tip Alice off to his waiting presence. Like when he was in front of the sign that held his name, his mask rested towards Francine- well, only this time he couldn't see her. And so he observed the space she disappeared to, sight weak with worry and emotional exhaustion.

He still felt it, though, in his fingertips. They curled in and out with both unease and wonder, fresh from three kinds of touch: that of her face, the piano, and of course- her phone. Each of the three had a special, striking cadence pulsing from his palms like a heartbeat...but…

As he stared at the emptiness ahead, still anticipating her call or arrival, he didn't know it was both she and him that felt vibrations of the past course through their whole body, filling them with awe and dread. His heart began to race like a beating drum.

How much longer could he wait?

* * *

There's a very precise kind of ache one may experience like Francine did as she pressed a button on the elevator's panel, uncaring which level she picked since she didn't know at which Alice would even be. A forceful yet dull pain clasped the bottom of her skull and crawled down the back of her neck, eventually aligning with a heart sore from its anxiety.

The doors clanked shut, and the passing levels put bars of light and shadow over and around her, as if she was a prop in her story instead of its lead. And indeed, she was beginning to feel how small she was.

But then it became more. As the design of the elevator's carved walls wrapped over her and the deep, heavy creaks of machinery echoed into the box, the transporter became a cage. Her eyes darted, unseeing, and her chest started to sting as its thump grew stronger and stronger.

Yes, the numbness of absolute terror had waned, and she was finally allowed to accept what just happened- not just of her empathy for the projectionist, but that for herself.

She stumbled back into the corner closest behind, one hand stroked against her throat. That's where it was- that's where his hand was. Just as quickly had her own touch cause her to feel sick, even after she then retracted it to cling to the wall. Her breathing shallow and quick, she evoked to her mind again the sound of the door slamming open, blinding light swallowing her like a path to the afterlife. She could feel now how sore her face still was, the unwitting projectionist roughening it with his cold, calloused fingers as she…she…

As she thought for sure she was going to die.

Even if she now knew that for some reason this did not happen, it couldn't lessen the realizations of her mortality. And god almighty, she thought she could meet Alice again? Someone who harbored _actual_ animosity towards the woman?!

It all fell upon her so suddenly and with such might that Francine collapsed in that small corner before the elevator had stopped, holding herself around the knees and digging her head where the walls met like it was a mother's arms.

She was so overwhelmed- so scared of this path she had chosen- that she didn't hear the door ahead slide open. That or she simply didn't care.

Either way, the pitter patter of feet was left unnoticed.

A monster unfamiliar to her entered the room from a hall just beyond, an inhumanly large, gaping mouth heaving irregular gasps of air. Their head perked, a single eye out of two sockets twitching up ahead at the sound of quiet sobs. Wild with ferocity of unknown origin, Piper stepped forward around the last corner, ready to attack-

 **And he was there.**

As the woman cried to herself, so aware of her vulnerability that she forgot to attend to it, she did not hear nor see what the Piper did. Not even the strokes of grey enveloping the whole room could awaken her from the distress of mortal flesh. Not even the demon's giant, looming shadow that lay ahead her feet, nor his raspy, unnatural breath. Not even as he stood so close that the **drips** almost fell upon her skin, clinking gently against the metal and beginning to pool a few feet from where she lay.

The half-mechanical toon had not only the instincts of a hunter but also of the hunted, and so after a few seconds of witnessing the unbelievable, Bendy mercifully granted them retreat. As the beast ran, his horrid, gutting smile branded onto their back. They'd know not to give in to that impulse again, not when **he** was there.

A soft click rang in the air, and Francine opened her eyes only to see the darkness of a moving elevator returning, down to the right floor this time around. But it would be so strangely soon that a disciple would be destined to meet the ink demon yet again.

The speakers overhead remained silent the entire time.

* * *

Sammy was ready to fling himself into what he dreaded most, finally seeing how disturbingly long Francine had been away. He felt dread prickle his flesh like knives- perhaps a phantom of the days he could have goosebumps pluck his skin. Not a single voice had been audible since the woman left his sight, not even the angered yelling of the angel.

He had waited too long. He had waited too long. _He had waited too long-_

A mad dash for his friend ended as soon as it began, and one kind of fear was replaced with another. He was barely capable of voicing it.

"My…my lord…!"

Bendy had emerged from a portal of shadowy oblivion, painting the world with his ethereal darkness. On sight, Sammy fell to the floor in reverence of his master, only willing to look down upon his hands and the floor beneath them swallowed by the ink demon's essence. He witnessed drops from his own head land next to his shaking fingers, alongside the drips of his lord.

Sammy felt him breathing over his back.

"My lord, my lord, I-"

He had dared to look up, a fake face looking upon that of the one it wished to emulate. Two accursed grins opposed each other, one trembling and the other unmoved. As the prophet cowered under his deity, the grating silence that cut his soul eventually led him to a terrible possibility. It made him throw his head down in total desolation.

"I…I let her go." Sammy almost choked on his own words, barely stumbling out of his mouth. "I let her go without me," he confessed, so quiet that it was hardly audible.

… _Was it_ audible?

Sammy's quivering, tightened shoulders rose as he gazed towards his god again, having comprehended he had yet to be torn apart once more for such heinous, unforgivable sins. Where was his penalty?

"My lord?"

Bendy was only smiling down at the disciple, his figure filling the entire height of the doorway. Light from the room ahead lined the silhouette of a being molded from the same blood as the shepherd, and it only seemed to stand there so his glory be beheld. The single reply Sammy received was the behemoth's organic stillness. His…waiting.

" _Ink demon!"_ Sammy scrambled up to his knees, arms outstretched and accepting of whatever his talons may bring. "I've- I've failed you!" More quietly this time, weighty with realization. "I've…failed you." He looked again to his lord in preparation of the punishment he was certainly worthy to receive.

But it was only the sound of his breathing. Only the sight his unchanging sneer.

It filled Sammy with unbearable flabbergast, bits of his arms falling with his lord's rain as he confronted his cowardice.

" _INK DEMON!"_ the prophet commanded his god.

Nothing for the one who questioned that which gave him life. Slushy forearms lowering to his lap, Sammy could only stare up at teasing omniscience.

It was recalled then that this wasn't the first time he was confronted by his lord, forced to see only the near-silent but all-knowing visage of a cartoon morphed by immortality. And like before, Sammy was left to his own devices to discover Bendy's intent for him.

What was he missing? What was he missing? What-

The shepherd suddenly bolted up to his feet, renewed by purpose and understanding.

"Y-yes! You want me to- I'll save her! _I'll rescue her, my-"_

As soon as he stepped forward once again, he was thrown back to the floor where he belonged.

Groaning, Sammy held his stomach as Bendy remained in the doorway, not as an inspiration but as a gatekeeper. He had deemed that the prophet shall not pass.

Some of his damned body seeped into cracks of the floorboards, melting away as his assurance did. Sammy could only guess what fate- no, what _God_ could possibly be asking of him in this moment.

Yes, Bendy would ensure there would be no interruption as a morbid curiosity was finally indulged.


	31. Souls in Heaven

**31- Souls in Heaven**

" _And to bring to light for everyone what is the plan of the mystery hidden for ages in God who created all things…"_ \- Ephesians 3:9

* * *

The elevator doors creaked once more, opening to an impressive, wide room; she could see halls and stairs carved into it and beams horizontally placed just below the ceiling. By this point, something had compelled the woman to finally stand up. Almost as if the elevator grew impatient with her suffering, it had taken her to another, previously unseen floor. She rubbed a tear off her cheek, contemplating her circumstances. Yes, she was absolutely frightened- not that she hadn't been previously, but…this was different, somehow. At least before, she had learned that Sammy was her ally…well, she did eventually. The other cursed beings she met hadn't shown her such kindness.

She frowned a bit. Even though she was only thinking to herself, she still felt guilty and found it necessary to correct this notion.

No, Norman wasn't necessarily unkind. After that moment of reticence in the moving box, Francine started to have a sense that he was just simply…out of his own control. Touching her roughened neck one last time with a wince, she looked up ahead, shadow from the overhead lights lining her brow.

And as she gazed upon yet another space left for a stranger to wander, cut wood and sharpened metal leaking ink like a giant's open sore, every soul of the studio seemed to latch onto hers. Sammy still correct in his assumption as he allowed her to enter the angel's abyss; she did want this more than he.

Why, though?

She took her first step out of the cubed cage, the sole of her shoe tapping into a quiet world. Her feelings for and about the inky beings followed her, leeching away what used to be a thriving drive for self-preservation.

On the surface, she seemed very resigned to this new life of 1930s hell. In a way, she was- but it was a resignation to _survive._ And for her, it didn't just mean physical survival. No, Sammy wasn't the only one who knew that life without belief wasn't a life worth living. So what did she believe in? A lot of things, as many people do. But dire circumstances can make it clear what matters most to someone, and that's what it did for her. And with their reveal, she found she was not satisfied.

She looked side to side, observing that there were again a few paths to take. The left seemed to be a narrow hall, and it traced around a lowered room directly ahead. To her right, a closed door. Three paths, then. Which to take?

Another step was taken to look over the middle path. Her eyes shot open, hearing a crackle from a speaker above…but no one spoke. She didn't wonder why it was so, but it made her remember Alice was still watching. A shiver crawled up her spine.

Why did she want Francine to see Norman? And why did she seem so…hurt, angry? What did Sammy even _do_ to warrant such emotion?Of course, all these questions could be summarized as one: What did Alice know? As she seemed to hold a key to Sammy's lost past, the woman had decided unconsciously that is was also the key to understanding the studio and her new existence. In Francine's view, Alice was the piecer of puzzles, the keeper of mysteries, the only one who seemed to understand.

How strange was it that Alice was starting to see the mortal in the same way.

" _Don't come any closer!"_

As Francine strayed down the staircase, the voice came yet again to halt her in her tracks. It caused her concern, of course, but something was… _off._ It was a tone that the angel had never used before, and so it was a surprise to hear her capable of it. It wasn't just a call of anger. It was a call of _desperation._

Bizarrely, Alice was beyond rage and beginning to drift into pure upset. It grasped something inside the woman, and her brow furrowed. "L-listen, Alice," she boldly called out into nothingness, "I…" It took a second to find the right words, the speaker silent as if Alice was holding her breath. "Remember when…you told me I looked scared?"

No answer. She continued anyway.

"I'm… _still_ scared," she admitted, her own voice quaking as she heard herself speak. But the silence remained, leaving her unsure if Alice was pondering or waiting for more. She had more to say, and so Francine finally let her heart pour out, as was her first instinct when she met the angel some time before.

"I'm…I'm really, _really_ scared. And I think-" Francine swallowed. This next statement was so stupidly risky. But it was her truth. "I think for some reason…you're scared, too?"

The woman couldn't understand why, but she and Alice seemed akin in their discomfort, their uncertainty of fate. Maybe if the mortal admitted her feelings, her overseer may soften as well.

Again, nothing. With a heavy yet quickened heart, Francine started to walk towards a small bridge looming above a river of ink-

"Stay. Away."

The slightly deeper of the voices returned, and despite its muted restraint, the poison it contained still seeped the air with an echo. But instead of quenching the woman's fires, they only burned brighter and higher.

Sammy, Norman, and even Alice herself seemed to clasp upon Francine's shoulders, overcoming her with grief and longing. She felt what must have been their anguish and eternal suffering. Her eyes started to tighten, cheeks pushed upward as she clenched her teeth. All along, everyone seemed to be overwhelmed by her presence and ordered her time after time to leave, like she didn't belong anywhere in this place that served as her prison. Hell, even an e _levator_ had gotten sick of her. It made her feel…discarded; it was hard enough to be by the life she should have been living right now in the outside, but it stung so, so badly to not even have somewhere to be when she couldn't escape it at all.

She decided then that she was here to stay.

"Where are you going?!" Alice's voice flew over the woman's head as she clenched her fists, marching over the bridge. It was Francine's turn not to answer, probably unable to as doggedness twisted her chest so forcefully that her temples grew sore. The last word of the seraph dissolved into a gasp, and then-…into a hearty, mocking laugh.

"You think you can walk the path of angels, little girl? I'd like to see you try."

The mortal's chin lifted up as she stood at the foot of yet another staircase. An angel rested above, holding a scroll that, unlike her living counterpart, welcomed Francine to enter cloud nine. Underneath was a solid metal wall, likely a bolstered door. She stopped yet again. How foolish was she to let her need for answers face someone she knew nothing about, besides that they hadn't hesitated to send shards of glass flying right at her? But again…what made her afraid was what fueled her actions. Even as Alice pushed herself further and further away, Francine only wanted to get closer. The fact she knew nothing made her want to know everything. If this was her life now…it wasn't worth living if she couldn't understand it.

"Well?" the angel interrupted, "What are you going to do?"

Oh, how little did Alice Angel comprehend that this wasn't a tease she had uttered but an invitation.

"I-…What?"

And then Alice said nothing more as Francine came to the top of the stairs to the enormous figurine's open arms. With her last step, almost as a command-…the impenetrable metal door had begun to open for Francine. It was like she was a king returning to his court waiting with baited breath, exalting her presence with laud and grandeur.

The horrid scrape of metal upon metal as the gate finished was accompanied by an equally unsettling screech from every speaker.

"WHAT?! _WHAT?!_ How…how did you-?!"

The audio paused, silenced by a recognition that seemed to elude Francine. As her ears flooded with adrenaline and spite, the woman would hear the words that did eventually come, but not their meaning. To her, they were only more of Alice's insistence she be left alone. Well, Francine wasn't going to let that happen. Not when she was stuck in this fucking place for God knows how long and questions were still left to be answered. And so, Alice Angel's next cries were misinterpreted to be of the same kind, their true nature unappreciated.

"No! NO! What are you doing?! _STAY AWAY FROM ME! LEAVE! NOW!"_

Francine didn't know that up until this second for decade after decade, Alice had believed she was the only one who could open that door. And she certainly didn't want it to in this moment…and yet it _did._ The angel was realizing in horror that even in heaven, there was a god more powerful than she. The woman was right; Alice was scared. Scared of _her._

There was one voice left unremembered, one man that Francine now knew but had forgotten to consider as she tried to carry the burdens of every prisoner of the studio. And yet, his musings rang most true:

" _What a positively silly thought."_

* * *

The hallway definitely wasn't as long as it felt. Maybe it was the angel's growls and cries, indistinguishable to the mortal's foolish idea of what this situation meant. Maybe it was the tables along the way, toys and paper left untouched woven into spiders' long abandoned webs. Maybe it was how suffocatingly close the walls were, seeming like organs of a mechanical behemoth that had swallowed them all, pumps and gears moving and whistling all around her.

How mistaken was she to think that its release to an open room would bring only relief. The shadows had lifted, but an absolute nightmare fell as she came upon a cavern of _corpses._

Of course, she gasped and she shook in utter terror, but she wasn't the only one doing so.

While Francine took in only what she could see, Alice could only dwell upon what it was this scene was missing. As the seraph accepted that evil had entered her home, she could only ask it one question:

"…What else can you take from me?"

Even as the sight of monsters strapped to a few of the tables gaped at her with dead eyes, the woman was maybe cut most by the invisible- the sounds of someone besides herself sobbing. It was Alice, totally despondent for a reason beyond her comprehension; it betrayed a desperation to keep whatever it was she had left that the ink demon demanded he take.

"They're all gone, Francine…" The angel above sniffled. "Every last Boris. _He took them. He took them from me. All of them!"_

The mortal stood still, chilled to the bone as an empty, Frankenstein-type vertical bed stood next to her side. Their backdrop a true ocean of ink, she didn't know something used to be strapped there.

Or someone.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hey remember when I said not much has changed since Henry has been there?

I lied a little bit.


	32. Interlude

**32- Interlude**

" _Then the LORD said, 'If they do not believe you or pay attention to the first sign, they may believe the second.'"_ – Exodus 4:8

* * *

One hand supported her chin as the other tapped with boredom against the living room table. _Pa-tump. Pa-tump. Pa-tump._ A slow blink fell, beginning to carry the stress of idleness. She curled her fingers onto the wood like it was a piano's keys- and one last time, it was too forceful. She suddenly felt something shift underneath their tips.

Nothing moving but her gaze, the woman glanced down. Underneath her left hand was a paper; some sort of writing was obscured beneath her palm. She lifted it, and what it revealed made her head tilt and one eyebrow raise.

"Hey Sammy," she chimed for him. In the corner of her sight, Sammy lifted his mask to face her, banjo on his lap as he casually sat upon the floor to fiddle with it. In return, he saw her gesture with a momentary nod towards the table. "Who's this?"

It was indistinguishable if Sammy's exhalation was a sigh or a groan as he slowly came to his feet, neck of his favorite instrument still in his grip. And as he stood over the paper, he too tilted his head.

"Henry and Boris," Francine read. They were the titles over rows of tally marks, organized in a way not unfamiliar to anyone that had played a series of games to pass a long, rainy day. Her tone seemed to carry both amusement that eased the stale drear of the apartment as well as genuine curiosity. She stared at the paper for a bit longer, waiting for Sammy to respond. When he didn't, she turned up again to look at him.

"Ring any bells?"

As she realized that silence had fallen heavily upon him, it was unknown to her if it was because he didn't understand that phrase, or if it was yet another episode of drowning memories trying to crawl to the surface of his consciousness.

Either way, he seemed dismissive.

"I'm certain you've seen a 'Boris' on some of the posters that line the walls, Francine."

She had to concede to that, and she admitted so with a few sideways bobs of the neck and a small, "Ah, yeah." It was a wolf, right? Certainly seemed more like a Goofy rip-off, if she recalled. But anyway, so that took care of that.

"Wait, but what about-?"

But as she looked to him again to inquire about the other name, she saw his back was already turned at her, lingering into the doorway and eventually leaving down the hall.

She frowned, and her brow furrowed in annoyance. There was no awareness that this instance would be of any significance; she was merely frustrated with the man's wandering mind.

And so the moment passed without any acknowledgment about how odd it would be for two people she believed to be all alone in the world to find evidence that at some point, there had at least been two more. She recognized the nature of a game without recalling that in order for one to play it, it was required they physically exist in the first place.


	33. Conversation

**33- Conversation**

" _And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell."_ – Matthew 10:28

* * *

Once again, the woman's gut instincts of fear were accompanied by the angel's laugh. This time, however, was different. As Francine felt her shoulders heave up and down and her eyes widen- but still unable to accept what they saw-, it was perceived that Alice's response was of complete and utter mockery.

"Stop playing the fool!" she boomed from overhead. It was a sentence still tinged by the strange, inexplicable sorrow of her previous words, but it seemed that the mortal's reaction irked her beyond annoyance. "I may not know who you are, but I _KNOW_ where you came from!"

Francine was so overwhelmed with the sight of mutilated cartoon corpses strapped down and dangled like an array of discarded toys that she found herself shaking. Even as the angel confused her beyond belief, she was at least welcome to distract her from the horrors ahead. And so, Francine looked up to the speakers and waited for more of heaven's fury to speak down.

She shouldn't have been so welcoming of it.

" _He followed you here…!"_ The sweeter voice was…whimpering. How dreadful was it that Francine wasn't the only one shaken by these events. _"The ink demon followed you here…! You- you led him to me! I WON'T LET HIM TAKE ME BACK!"_

Such a spew of unknown information was so overpowering that there was only one way the woman could respond.

"He-…led-…what?!"

" _I-I saw him!"_ the angel began to confess, momentarily putting aside her fear of the woman in order to rationalize to herself. "He was with you! He came with you! HE SENT YOU HERE!"

And although Francine didn't yet know this to be true, there was an assumption the angel had made thereafter.

Somewhere, Alice was besieged with the possibility that Francine, in her association- even friendship- with Sammy and the demon, could be here to strip the seraph of everything she had left.

Of course, this wasn't why Francine came at all. Neither the angel nor the woman knew the full truth, but each had a piece of it. That, however, was not enough for reconciliation. In a feeble voice projecting as loud as her exhausted body would allow, the woman called into nothingness, trying to find some understanding-

But was quickly interrupted.

"I'm not playing this game!" The seething tone, although filled with hatred, could not hide the total, utter desperation of a being scared to lose all that remained of her. "If you come any closer, I'll-...I'll kill you."

The last word, soft with resolution, echoed down into the inky ocean and through Francine's soul. How was the woman to react? All she wanted was to understand a little more- live maybe even a little more comfortably, at peace till the day "he set them free." She was sent on a wild goose chase in search of Sammy's truth to Norman and his cave of lonely darkness. When he could tell her nothing, Francine had decided the most logical choice would be to come to the angel herself, the one who had betrayed the first hint of knowledge regarding who everyone was, who this place used to be. And now, she was just finding out that maybe, just maybe, the god of this world had been over her shoulder at least at some point without her knowing.

And so, surrounded time after time by only the most ghastly of images and the most heartbreaking of realities, it shouldn't have been as much of a surprise as it was for Francine to simply look down to the floor in thought, look back up again in resolve, and turn to leave.

Regardless, this was not what Alice had expected.

"Where are you going?!" Maybe if the angel's assumptions were correct- that Francine herself was not only associated with the demon but in his control- this would be a foolish question to ask, teasing the one who wished her pain just after bidding her release. But this was also why such inquiries had to be made; if Francine came all this way, why turn back?"

It was simple:

"I'm…I'm just…" The woman closed her eyes, knowing the right words but struggling to speak them. "I'm so tired. I'm so tired of this." They opened, narrowed slits underneath a brow furrowed with a frustration that was beginning to seed into something more resentful. "I'm not playing this fucking game either."

The exhaustion of this inky world had culminated into an outright threat to end her life merely for wishing to accept it, falling out of Alice's mouth and weighing the woman down more than any other trial had done before. This denial, out of everything this bitch of a studio had thrown at her, was the one that finally filled her with rage.

"I just wanted to- you know!- get some damn answers about who you FUCKING people _ARE."_ Almost as if Alice was standing right behind her instead of lurking someplace else, Francine turned around with a grin poisoned with sarcasm and a shrug that was the epitome of complete and utter exasperation. "Sammy doesn't know who the hell he even is; you sent me to talk to a guy who can't TALK; and so I came down here to _mayyyybe_ ask _you_ \- who I thought might be the only person who knows fucking a _nything about this damn place_ \- and you wanna kill me. Well, that's GREAT." She exhaled heavily, but it brought no release of her tension. "Oh! And I just found out that a fucking demon might be following around without me noticing! So that's all! Just! _GREAT!"_

It was all so utterly ridiculous that it could only be conveyed in a ridiculous tone, ended with a flourish of arms throwing themselves down. It was the only way Francine could wrap her head around all the confusion and injustice that swallowed her every move, her very existence. Even so, there was something that bothered her so much, it could only be taken seriously.

"I just…wanted to talk." She shook her head, but the weariness would not fall away. "But you obviously don't want to, so…"

The woman couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence. This was already too much. She turned back around with a groan and a fling of her wrist, as if it was discarding everything she had hoped to achieve here, when-

"Wait."

Francine looked back once more into this horrid place, compelled by a voice maybe not gentle, but at least a bit more empathetic…even if it still was wary of all that the woman brought with her.

"You just wanted to talk?" Alice asked, sounding incredulous.

"Yeah," Francine replied bluntly, softly.

There wasn't another sound for several breaths. Just as the woman considered leaving once more, Alice returned to her.

"The demon…is no longer with us, I see. Fine."

…

"Fine what?" Francine asked.

It began with a groan, the angel's regular tone of condescendence returning to her. "Let us speak. Finish walking this path and see if you're ready to talk with angels."

And the speaker clicked again, signaling its finish. Although physically she was alone the entire time, it was only as the fuzz of audio drifted away that the woman felt she was truly without a single soul.

In the very least, the absolutely nightmarish bodies around her didn't seem to have one anymore.

But before she could even think about the consequences of actually meeting Alice once again- especially after all that she had just said-, Francine had to address a very real concern.

The path ahead could hardly be called so. It was planks of wood held up like a makeshift bridge over a massive pool of ink who knows how deep, drawn around different structures, some of which much too close for her liking to the dead monsters. She looked down at her feet, just past her stomach. She could easily see her uncoordinated self tumbling into the dark waters at the closer sight of one of those things. Or worse yet- she could see herself tripping _into_ one of them.

She pursed her lips and hummed in thought, even when she already knew the probably very stupid thing she was going to do.

Shoes stuffed with their socks in one hand and the other stretched next to her side for balance, Francine felt unfathomable shivers crawl up her spine as she waded through the ink to the other side of the room.


	34. Who They Used to Be

**34- Who They Used to Be**

" _The plans of the heart belong to man, but the answer of the tongue is from the Lord."_ \- Proverbs 16:1

* * *

" _Do you know what it feels like?"_

The words came just as she stepped onto the platform across the room, ink once again lingering off her lower body and back into the pool, a ferrofluid ocean of black. She dropped her shoes upon the ground and had begun to replace them back to her feet as the next statement followed.

"The suffocating, inky _darkness_ that chokes this studio every waking moment? The suffering- the struggle to simply be a _person_ again- denied to me at every opportunity, just as I have hope it's within my grasp."

Francine's palm touched the doorframe, approaching the final entrance.

"I didn't send you to Norman just to watch you squirm, silly cherub. I sent you to him so that you can finally _understand._ There's such a terrible audacity about you- how you walk among us, flesh and blood, and think that simply talking can lead everyone to their own personal solace. NO!"

As Alice spoke to her, the last statement made the woman flinch. Was it in fear? Yes, but not of the usual kind. For once, she was afraid she was _wrong._

Could…could she have been wrong for wanting what she did from these people?

"We all suffer here, Francine. And we always will. _The most we can do is just try to search for what used to make us human."_

As Francine clenched her left fist and stepped into the dark hall, a correction was made:

"…Some of us more misguided than others."

Shadow swallowed her. It also swallowed something else- the noise.

"We're all _so_ selfish, Francine. I can't trust anyone- ANYONE- to help me be the perfect Alice… _not even you._ So, why would _anyone_ trust you then, if even I cannot?"

Indeed, the walls were muting the angel's voice. It betrayed that finally, finally, Alice was physically present somewhere up ahead. That wasn't the only thing that gave her shivers. Just as Francine broke through darkness's veil, someone stood up ahead, and she had a message from above.

"And that's why it's so…SO interesting Sammy seems to have allowed you live."

A silhouette was straightened from its lean on what appeared to be a podium atop a stage. No, it couldn't be that; it had a metallic sheen at its back. Either way, this was her world now. The woman had begged her way into it, and by God Alice would make sure she'd get everything she was in for.

"Tell me, did he try to kill you already? Or do you still have that coming?" A bit of white flittered above an empty eyesocket- the curve of a horn through the dim lighting. "Do you… 'believe' in his savior, that horrible wretch that patrols these halls, waiting to take us back to those _terrible, AGONIZING PUDDLES_?!"

Oh, how fast did a monologue devolve into a wound as open as the ripped side of her face. With a shriek, the angel threw back her arms with balled fists, one confirming the large object was, indeed, metal as it slammed against its side. Finally, Francine would be taught her place.

"DO YOU EVEN KNOW _WHO I USED TO BE?!"_

The slight bend forward at her waist deepened, Alice's head dipping to look at the floor. A soft noise.

Crying.

She was crying.

And suddenly:

" _I don't think I've ever shown anyone. I never had a reason to."_ The angel straightened up once more, a strange sort of resolution etched upon her face. "…Until today."

And although Francine came here to talk, it was clear that this was Alice's time. And if the prophet was going to have his story told- the one who threw away everything he was-, then Alice would be damned if she wouldn't have her own peace. Not that Francine could talk back now anyway.

Especially not as the angel's hand- gloved by ink- suddenly held her uncoated one.

Black fingers stroked over her forearm, almost as if feeling what she would never have again, until their tips came to the woman's palm. There was a small press just before mortal hands were gently closed shut, and the angel slowly pulled away just as mildly- so extraordinarily mildly- as she came. Mouth agape and shaking, Francine looked up in time to see a sliver of Alice's face as she began to turn her back, hair and halo glistening underneath lightbulbs.

"… _Do you think you can help him?"_ Such a small laugh then, hollowed by the decay of both body and spirit. _"I'm not sure you can even help yourself."_

It was such a grave, unsettling tone; it was like Alice was asking this to a god above rather than who stood before her, as if they were all helpless but to see whatever the woman would do- whatever would be done to her. Indeed, Alice's opinion of her changed over and over, much like Sammy's had. In the eyes of an angel, Francine was a fool. Her pursuit of "truth" was no truth at all. Of course, Alice was agitated. After all, the last fully human person that graced her presence had brought with him the worst of fates. She had plenty of reason to be tired and wary of one such as the woman.

And yet.

"Don't be a bleedingheart, little cherub," she began, voice abruptly firm, "Not if you don't want to wake up in a pool of your own blood. If you leave me be, I'll leave you be. And so my advice to you? Leave us ALL be if you want to stay alive- IF you can stay alive," she added, remembering the demon. But then the one wearing its face came to mind again, and her purpose with the mortal returned. One last squint fell over her shoulder as Alice stepped back onto the stage, one arm stretched up to grab a handle at the ceiling. "Don't trust him."

And just as quickly as it began, Alice once again barred herself from the rest of the world, a metal sheet crashing down to separate the two women one last time.

Francine needn't know how strange it was for Alice to open up in the first place.

* * *

It was a minute or two before it was certain the mortal had left her. Even as a wall now separated them, it was not enough to serve as her quarantine. How terribly disturbing it is to allow someone to get so close. A question rang through her mind as she gazed at her now empty hands.

Why allow it at all?

Indeed, it greatly confused her. _Everything_ about the woman confused her, but somehow it was how Alice reacted that became the most perplexing. It was only minutes ago that Francine's life was threatened, Alice afraid of whatever the ink demon intended as she witnessed him linger over the mortal as she journeyed his halls.

But it wasn't only one kind of fear she felt. For the first time in a long time…she feared for someone besides herself. The possibility came that she should be fearing for Francine.

It was undeniable that her very nature was almost a calling card to trouble. Persistent. Outrageous. _Tactless._ This was all true. But…-

Alice felt one side of her lips purse.

…She didn't seem to be anything more than that. Certainly not a being she'd expect to be in association with the demon. She showed neither Sammy's fervor for Bendy nor the "lord's" power, and so the woman's place in this studio was so very unusual. It didn't make sense unless she was hiding something-…

A chill ran up her spine at yet another twist in the ropes that tied them together.

Or unless something was hidden from her.

And so Alice herself was twisting and turning with her plans and emotions, her care for the woman's destiny so deep that her only choice? It was to remain neutral. She had to detach. She had to. It was the only way to reconcile both the great upset and the great worry that the mortal's presence had rained down upon her, as split as the seraph's face. One last thought cut from her mind into her heart, sharp with uncertainty.

" _God help her."_

* * *

Francine didn't stop walking until she was once again in the room of corpses. Somehow, some way, such a horror was a relief from that confessional. It barely grazed over her head the irony that the one that wished to talk didn't end up talking at all; it was already so overwhelming. It felt like being scolded in the most insulting of ways- _rightfully_ critiquing her existence in a way Francine had never considered before- and then shoved back out the door. She didn't even get to-

She was so shaken that her only reaction to realizing she had forgotten to ask about Sammy was to put a quivering hand to a forehead drenched in sweat.

She found she could not, however, as something was in its way.

The hand fell before her stomach and she uncurled just one of the fingers of her fist. As she did, a sharp corner of yellow teased its way into sight.

Soon in her grasp was a piece of paper, white creased into it like veins where the folds had been. It trembled alongside she, but even so, its image stayed clear. In dulled black and white sat a woman- dark hair, pale skin, painted lips. In her own hands she also held a paper, what seemed to be a script seeing how a microphone sat in front of the lady's elbows, bent onto the table in a casual manner. Another's hand was pointing to it. Over her shoulder was a dark-skinned man with large glasses and a noticeable tuft of hair at the front of his head, under which was a brow raised in what seemed to be the interest of normal conversation.

They looked happy.


	35. Reunion

**35- Reunion**

" _When the LORD brought back the captive ones of Zion, we were like those who dream."_ \- Psalm 126:1

* * *

And then she began to doubt.

There's an ache left in your heart if one expects something in particular. The more important it is to you, the worse it feels, as if something was taken away from you even if it wasn't yours in the first place. That's the pain Francine felt as she journeyed all the way back from whence she came.

Oh, how did it make her stomach turn to hear music pump from her phone once again, vibration filling her hand with an energy she no longer possessed.

Down through the black lake once more.

" _Don't trust him."_

She remembered when they first met. How the light glistened over his torso as he stood over her. He took her. _He took her._

" _Don't trust him."_

Being tied up was the most horrific moment of her entire life as they waited for Bendy to take her, like a crucified scarecrow. His anger at her rescue, his lord's sparing. His staring. _His staring._

" _Don't trust him."_

Nothing could explain how it felt to put her life in his hands. She felt like a lamb to the slaughter every second up until they finally clasped hands for that first time. It took so long to finally comprehend that she was safe with him, as safe as he could make her.

But was she ever?

It's easy to pick out the bad things, isn't it? Especially when you felt so firm about someone you cared about, so steady in your goal to save him and yourself. Especially when you're suddenly not so sure that everything you believed in was the truth at all.

That's what she had to face as she was confronted by her own relentless pursuit of what would bring her comfort, now unknowing if it was what would truly help the lost souls she had so briefly met yet cared so much for.

If it was all just a pencil and a dream, then none of these people deserved any of this. Maybe nothing could make them deserve this. She couldn't think of anything that would.

" _Don't trust him."_

Alice was…so scared of the demon. She could tell. It was Francine's folly to absorb the reverent tone Sammy preached for his lord, a never-ceasing faith that made the former musician center his entire existence around it. And now she had realized that unconsciously, a faith had started to grow in her too. He saved her life after all. He gave her the phone back. And like an ubiquitous god, Bendy had followed her during this epoch of tragedy. Certainly he…he _had_ to be something akin to godliness, at least brushing the rim of that line between mere magic and complete and utter omnipotence.

But if he was a god, what kind of god was he?

Ironic timing to ask herself this as she finally stepped out of the toy factory, a gasp escaping her lips as eyes shot open.

There he was.

And there was Sammy.

" _Don't trust him."_

And just as she gazed upon them, they gazed upon her, like she was a miracle shining as it descended down to greet them. But even so, as Bendy's eyeless watch slid past the inky waterfall that tried to separate them, he was somehow still the one that held all unearthly glory.

It was particularly blaring to accept as Sammy rested by the demon's feet, a desperate reach- a plea- interrupted as what he longed for had returned.

And just like that, the woman found two of the same face doing nothing but waiting for her. But with all the thoughts spiraling through her head, the usual amazement of the demon's presence coincided with a new, much more disturbing thought, now that she saw the lord and his prophet together at last.

Conspiracy.

 **Drip.**

It hadn't before in this moment, but suddenly the splash of the ink demon's aura had come to her, lapping at her feet like gentle waves. And from the ceiling, a single, small drop of ink had fallen onto her wrist, a touch as tender as the angel's.

It reminded her she really didn't know which deity she should trust.

And as she blinked down at her forearm at this, observing the bead of liquid void spread over her shape, she finally looked up again to see the remains of shadowy oblivion incarnate step out of the room, Bendy entering his portal once more. She could have sworn he looked at her once last time, just as he did so.

Then it was emptiness. Emptiness filled with dread.

Sammy remained as he was, in his pathetic, begging state, asking his lord to let her come back. But she had come on her own. Relief battled with absolute perplexity as a quietly panting, near-sobbing Lawrence kneeled at the rightmost exit exactly where she left him; she now saw the aching, suffering man he had always been.

She didn't know if it was a man that cared for her alongside worship of the demon or despite it. How strange is it that a simple phrase can change so many before it, valid or otherwise.

She had no choice but to come to him, all the same.

Arms formerly stretched out to his lord now came for the woman until the two beings met in the middle. The spot on her wrist was smeared even more as he pulled her back out of the angel's lair as fast as he could. It was a reunion steeped so deeply in discomfort that she didn't notice the stairs she used to come down to him were only moments ago so broken that falling onto their debris would have killed her. He didn't feel the paper in the hand he clasped.

A song of twinkling dread came from her other hand as their figures lapsed into the darkness of machines.

Someone was beginning to regret their curiosity.

" _God help her."_

* * *

 **Author's Note:** The matching song for this is Dreamspell by Gary Stadler.


	36. The Last Stair

**36- The Last Stair**

" _Lord, how long will You look on? Rescue my soul from their ravages, my only life from the lions."_ \- Psalm 35:17

* * *

It's a deeply unnatural feeling to let your faith slip, even a little, just for one moment.

The drop in your chest as you approach the floor at the end of the staircase; you stretch your leg just a little too far and miss the last stair. The way your foot swings into nothingness seems like you've willingly walked off a cliff. Maybe you trip and feel the floorboards crash into your temple. Maybe your sole simply falls flat and you're uncomfortable at worst. In between, though, is the most unsettling place to be.

Drifting in the air, freefalling for just blink. The need to balance yourself is sickening, and there's the longest split second of not knowing if you'll be fine or if you'll finally tumble down. Even if it's a devastating resolution that awaits, you just want it to be over with. "Just don't leave me not knowing where my own fate lies," you plead to someone outside of yourself. It's an all-consuming, sudden comprehension of mortality that can leave you unable to deal with the actual problem itself.

That's the best way to describe where the disciples were after Alice turned them upside down. It's true that they had willingly come to her, though, and beg she tell them what she knew. But ultimately, it left more questions that answers. In fact, it didn't answer any questions at all.

Maybe it should be made more precise exactly what had thrown the two into dismay. It had been so hard for Francine to accept their circumstances that she wanted to solve their mystery…even if Sammy held no desire for it at all. Indeed, as much as he wanted to find the person he used to be, it shook him to his core to try to chase it, especially when it seemed to run into the arms of an angel with a great, inexplicable rage for him; it was like deciding whether or not to go into the firy blaze that's taken what is yours. Indeed, he didn't know what he had done, and so she must have been evil incarnate- the only way to explain their lives when he remembered none of what she did. Even if it was dead wrong. And so then, torn between two kinds of desperation, he let his first friend enter hell in his stead.

Even without a mirror, he could see himself a coward as a passing light flashed across her face in this blackened hall of machinery; she was his reflection, and he saw the consequences.

It was slight but there were marks- darker, duller flesh upon her face speckled on her cheeks alongside her usual brown flecks. She looked so tired. So shaken So...- and he saw something he couldn't grasp- something in her eyes just in that brief electric shine that terrified him. And with that, he was realizing that everything he had tried to prevent may have occurred. He may have dismissed the woman to walk into the fire, and if that was true, he wasn't sure how Bendy could ever forgive him.

But then there was something worse.

He was beginning to dread that maybe his lord kept him at bay for one particular purpose- so that the prophet would learn what would happen if he tried to unearth the past instead of hope for their future. What a horrible thing to dream it could be. And to dream was what had become so easy to do with his friend by his side, like her presence was a siren for whimsy long lost to the depths of his inky soul.

To not want to lose that made him feel so inconceivably guilty. She felt guilty, too, but for other reasons.

After all, she just wanted to understand-

No.

Now she recognized why it had been so effortless for her to begin to trust Sammy and now for her to begin to trust the angel's fear of openness and the projectionist's longing for what was once his, even as her bizarre connection to all three struggled to coexist in her mind. She came to realize that there's a reason why she had cared for them all without second thought, even as the demon loomed over her like death's shadow. Even as she now knew that there was something to be afraid of that Sammy had tried and failed to hide from her.

Maybe it had been a fool's errand for Francine to think she could have a family again.

As they fled, someone wished they could tell them to stop, to allow themselves to feel that sickening drop as they missed only the last stair of their journey, to give themselves time to steady. They had done it before, after their first meeting with the angel. Can't they do it again?

 _Don't ignore it._

 _Don't let go._

 _Please don't let go._


	37. His Blessing

**37- His Blessing**

" _But go and learn what this means: 'I desire mercy, not sacrifice.' For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners."_ \- Matthew 9:13

* * *

She wouldn't let him touch her, and he wasn't sure that in any of these horrible, agonizing years of entrapment that he had ever felt quite like this. Once again, just as he reached for understanding, his foot slipped the second he began to see it within grasp.

Disgusting.

Unworthy.

Something inherent in his very nature made him inexplicably _bad._ And it was so much worse now; he had unconsciously allowed himself to believe, thanks to her, that maybe something was still inside him that was worthwhile.

He turned his head to look at her again. Yes, yes, she was different, and different was everything he didn't want her to be.

And indeed, she was very, very different.

Francine leaned into herself as she sat on the gurney in the apartment, legs dangling over the edge. Usually they'd kick a little - usually it was as if there was something inside her that demanded she not stay still. It's absence now was the only reason he had noticed it ever existed. The woman seemed frozen, chilled inside out. A half open mouth, half open eyes, and in the brief seconds he caught her gaze…a half open heart.

Of course she didn't trust him, he thought. Of course.

But understanding doesn't lessen the burden of acceptance.

The feeling when you hurt someone you care about to the point where offering closeness, tenderness bothers them may be the worst fate of all. It means you're helpless, totally useless to fix what you've caused. You can only sit there and watch the future unfold without you.

…Unless you're especially desperate.

"Francine," Sammy muttered, voice tripping inside his throat. It was rough, clumsy, and hardly became audible at all…but it was all he had. He had to give something, he _had_ to give something to fix this.

Her eyes only flashed up to him, then back down when he had no further words to give. Usually she'd be so skilled at reading his faceless expressions, so willing to at least try. Its lacking now made him sick.

"Francine," he begged again.

Nothing. Her brow only furrowed just a touch tighter, weighed with weariness. He didn't know that it wasn't the journey that had harmed her; she had asked to go after all and still did not regret it. No, it wasn't that- it was the uncertainty that followed. And so she retreated into herself, unsure how to reconcile everything she knew with everything that seemed to elude her forever.

But he didn't know, so anxiety overcame him. Unbearable silence; it needed to end. Please talk, please talk, please talk, please talk-

 _"Francine-!"_

And before he knew it, he couldn't tolerate the quiet any longer. He looked down at his hands and saw her shoulders beneath them now. He felt them tighten. He centered his gaze and-

He saw her gape turn into a frown, and as he retracted with a small gasp, a frown turned into a scowl.

"SAMMY-" How could she be so loud? She was never this loud. "Take a FUCKING chill pill for TWO MINUTES, DUDE! _Don't freak out on me!"_

Both she and him retracted in surprise. Her outrage thawed into shock, and she was back in the studio once more instead of inside the machinations and assumptions her own head. For the first time since they reunited, she actually saw him as he was instead of what the twists of this mystery made him to be. The shadowy figure of her mind- the one that loomed over her when they first met- turned his mask away and dissolved into who was before her now.

It only brought her more conflict, and so the only thing she knew to do was groan loudly and keep him out of her sight. She immediately regretted how she didn't take that split-second opportunity to meet his guise's painted eyes before she pushed past him, but she could only keep going. And so she made her way to the hammock and sat once more, same half open expression now meaning an entirely different thing.

And if you caught her eyes again, you'd see a glint of fear as they trembled in their sockets.

Even as he could still feel his presence, she couldn't meet his gaze. Not after that. But he wouldn't leave. She squeezed her eyelids shut and gritted her teeth. Let this moment pass. Please, let it pass-

A noise.

A noise she had never heard before. Not from him.

Laughter.

A soft chuckle roughened his throat. She turned her chin up, and as she did, she grasped maybe it wasn't laughter after all.

Maybe underneath that mask, he was crying.

"…I don't understand what you're saying." Hardly a whisper, hardly voiced at all. Finally, thanks to her outburst, everything unconscious inside Sammy had culminated into reality. It didn't only expound his shaken faith, didn't only unsettle his existence; like a pebble tossed into water's reflection, it broke his entire vision of what he could be.

His whole world was falling apart all over again, but only this time, he saw it coming.

She didn't see the depths of his suffering, and so she thought she could remedy it with a mere:

"I'm sorry."

It may have taken a lot for her to say it- maybe it represented a lot to her- but it went so much deeper for him; it was a difference as vast as the length of their lives. Of course, Francine conceding at least momentarily for the sake of peace was validly a disturbing experience.

But breaking the very foundation of who you are?

A watch turned to the wall only briefly came to her after a pause, almost as if there was a delay in the sound of her lips; the surprise took him only for a second, however, and his head shook such simple reconciliations away.

Flecks of him landed underneath her feet.

"If-" No, don't give up just yet. _"…when_ our lord releases us…what will I come back to?"

And just like that, Francine realized she had released a few strange words into this world trapped in time. Sammy had already been stripped so far of his spiritual comfort that now all that was left was who he was. So with her final blow, the prophet found his god's armor could not prevent a piercing through his very being.

With a few bits of slang, the disciples realized that the life he longed for wouldn't be the same. He couldn't recognize the remnants she had brought with her.

Suddenly and abruptly, it wasn't so hard to want to forgive. His stability in this moment was hers- and always had been. That's why she tried to uncover his secrets. She hoped that maybe their existence could be a bit easier, if he could just understand. If s _he_ could just understand.

How uncomfortable was it to feel both empathy and bitterness for the man she put all her faith in. How difficult it was to figure out what to do about it. And so her stare at him merely sharpened with worry, thumbs anxiously fiddling with each other between her dangling legs. Just past her sight of them, Francine saw Sammy grasp his upper arm, oily skin shining as to reveal that he was really, truly melting away.

It was a thought worth melting over.

"…I'm sorry, Francine." He spoke to her, but his face was pointed as far away as he could.

Shame.

Humiliation.

Despondency.

And as she battled with her growing sympathy from him, anger emerged.

"Why are you sorry?! You don't-" And he finally looked at her, so she stopped where she was. Somehow without a face, he was expressing probably the most profound sadness the woman had ever seen in her entire life.

He slowly let go of himself and his lean into the wall became a lurch towards her, a small, dark smear on the wood panel appearing where he used to be. Soon Francine's hair started to dangle further along her back, his height so tall over her even in her elevated seat that he needed to adjust her head to meet his eyes. That wasn't where she was supposed to look, she found, as her peripheral revealed two black smudges near her stomach.

He had laid his palms flat, unsure if it was for her to observe or for him to lament. Either way, it was all he could focus on. _Drip_ s continued to fall, almost in hope that enough of them leaving would reveal his original skin once more.

"This flesh isn't a disfigurement," Sammy admitted to himself, "It's a coma."

And so it was. Just as he knew not who he was, he knew not what existed without him. It was like a flower left behind in a dark closet, forgotten as a family moved out and on without remembering to take it with them. And even as he was that bloom, he was unsure if he was still alive or dead. He wouldn't know until someone opened the door.

…So he may never know, he had begun to dread.

And they were left there, staring at the inky soma that tried to leave him. And in a way, it did. Like drops of blood, small orbs formed at the back of his hands and splattered between them once their weight grew too heavy. Over and over, one by one they slipped off. But the disciple knew the curse couldn't be washed away so easily. It would only reveal more of how he had rotted thoroughly inside out; what left him sank into the floorboards, returning to the puddles, the pipes, and the ink machine. From whence his form came, his flesh would always feed. It was the price for keeping a flame lit that had long wished it could die.

Francine feared the machine. She feared the words of the angel, the fate of the projectionist. She could see the demon's face smiling down upon her, and she was unsure if it was a blessing or an omen. For a brief second, he could see Bendy stand over Sammy too. And as she did she was suddenly so, so aware of how much trust she had put into the two, and she had begun to close off her heart.

It was a very inopportune time to realize how vulnerable she was.

She swallowed and let her lips pull down. Now had come a conscious choice. She could either fear Sammy and live the rest of this imprisonment wary of he and his god, or she could do her best to accept it, blindly letting belief envelope her until the demon set them free.

…Neither were to her satisfaction, of course. Suddenly, her scowl returned, but it wasn't one of hatred- oh no. Determination. Time to make her own path. Even if it was trouble, she couldn't live with herself any other way. As she had resolved before, if she was stuck here, she was going to have to survive not just physically but emotionally.

"Sammy."

He didn't move, but she could feel him finally look back at her...just as her own head turned away. She could hardly look inside herself to say this, let alone him anymore.

"You-" His body finally shifted as she spoke again, the quakes in her voice reawakening him to her presence. "You'll be with me." It was resolute all the same. But of what? Sammy's neck tilted his wooden face closer to her, either in confusion or incredulity.

Her hands rubbed each other, slowly but roughly over and around each other and their fingers, impatient to release this anxiety.

"When we get out of here, I-…" The woman needed to pause. This would change everything all over again, so soon after she had come to see the studio for what it was, Sammy more for who he is. They didn't know who he used to be, and so it was a shot in the dark if whatever he had done to anger the angel was worth forgiving-

Francine had to stop herself again. No more "if or." It was _her_ life. She'd find a way. And so there was only one question left to ask herself:

Did she really want to make this promise?

-She saw his hands once more between them, fingers still curled as if he was begging for something that could save him-

Yes, she did.

"When we get out of here," she began again, "…I'll take care of you."

Underneath her brow, her eyes slid back up to look at him; the chill was still there, but much like he, Sammy saw something that still burned inside after all.

The dabs of paint that served as eyes almost seemed to shine alongside as they were both taken by revelation.

"We- maybe, maybe we're not the only ones that lived through this like I thought we were-" Frustration was tangible in her voice at this fact, but she pushed on. "But we're living through this together. You- you were…" She frowned once more, gaze falling to their pairs of hands. "…there for me when I needed someone."

He watched his set finally leave their stance and bend into his chest, shaking.

"I'm going to be there for you when you need someone, too. And besides." And then her own hands moved, her arms folded. A show of bravado and stability that tried and failed to balance her downright helpless words. "…I think I may still need you then too." And it was true. A lot had occurred, much more than anyone was supposed to experience in a single lifetime. With the agony of years of suffering came with it a sort of wisdom, and maybe, just maybe, he could help her learn to live not only through it but in spite of it.

A mutter came from his mouth, a sigh broken into bits. Sammy was a philosophical man, one always filled with responses. But not to this. Never before had someone besides his lord promise him hope. And it was such an incredible hope to give when one promises not to leave the other behind. The future was terrifying, but maybe less so if she could still find some good in him. Maybe less so if they went hand in hand.

But as with his lord, hope came with a price.

"But no more funny business!" Francine was loud again, her self-preservation turning from a need for companionship into a need for honesty. "I…I heard a _lot_ of things down there-" Saw a lot, too. "-and I know you don't know a lot, but that should give you more reason not to keep secrets."

Sammy's shoulders fell back and his clenched hands flinched a little more upwards in softness at her next words:

"If you really want me safe, then that's the way it has to be."

Yes, it was still a struggle to trust him, but she wanted to. So she was going to meet him halfway. Even in its uncertainty, it was worth a shot. It meant she wouldn't have to be alone, after all.

She wasn't going to ignore the angel, she promised herself. But she had seen too much in Sammy to ignore that he really, genuinely seemed to make his soul bare in her presence. That much deserved consideration.

And the woman had a feeling it wasn't Sammy that was the "he" she needed to distrust.

It was only now that she was done that Francine realized Sammy hadn't said a single thing since she began. His scratched face was directed straight down at her, but she couldn't be sure what he saw.

After a second of quiet, another light laugh.

And then his knees bent a little, and through his mask was a mouth open in awe and disbelief. Then...relief. His world and his faith could survive another day. "…A blessing," he decided. She was his blessing.

The question of Bendy allowing her harm would live on to haunt him, but for now, he was satisfied. In his desperation for firm ground, he allowed the worry of mere moments before to be buried beneath this one good thing his lord had bestowed upon them. The demon had brought her to his prophet, after all. Not only today but into his existence, and the time they spent together had already seemed like so much more than anything he'd gone through his entire life. Her mortal hand brought with it the graces of life beyond the ink. Wasn't that what he had asked for all along? Wasn't that enough?

Indeed, the lights seemed to flicker just a bit brighter when she was around. That was surely a sign God was with them.


	38. Your God and Mine

**38- Your God and Mine**

" _But what comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart, and this defiles a person_." - Matthew 15:18

* * *

Chapter Text

"And well…that was it." Her tale ended on a high, soft note. Out of context it seemed to understate the absolute blood-pounding revelation of her epoch, but it came out mildly as the weariness of recall gripped her shoulders.

Once again, Sammy found himself sitting across from the woman in the living room of this strange apartment, overcome by flabbergast. So Alice didn't hurt her after all…although she did threaten her life. Such behavior was expected; however, it stood in stark contrast to everything else she described.

"He…didn't try to attack you?" Sammy asked with both hesitation and disbelief about the newest being she had met.

The corner of Francine's mouth pulled back. "No. He-" She put a hand to her throat, a gentle recognition of a past sensation. "He was just…feeling, I think." A questioning gaze looked up to the prophet. "Norman can't- can't hear, right?"

A slow, wordless nod from across the table and nothing more. Norman…Norman… Sammy had never called him that but…it felt correct. If the angel called him so, then it must be the projectionist's former name.

But now that he thought of it, there was a lot of things they had accepted from her as truth without question. Yes, she did know Sammy's name, but who was to say that in her own desperation to find fulfillment in this cursed immortality, she hadn't designed her own history- her own fabricated reality of once was? Alice would certainly have reason to; this world was at times…unbearable.

Certainly so if one didn't have faith. And if she didn't believe in the ink demon, she could only believe in herself and her own machinations.

As a mental mention of his lord grazed his conscious, both his eyes and his heart were grasped by the sight in front of him. The woman's head was slightly downturned, eyelids shut with fatigue. Her arms were folded into her chest almost to hold herself. A few black stains soaked into her current short-sleeved shirt; he could see traces of where drops of ink trailed along her head and arms. The thin object in her grasp trembled, mirroring her current instability.

Yes, there was one thing that he hoped above all that Alice was being honest about.

"Praise be the demon was by your side."

All she did in response was look up at him again and let her gaze fall just as soon. She wasn't ready to try to describe her newfound fears of his lord, and even if she was, she wasn't sure she'd even know what to say. Just as Sammy gave his entire soul to the ink demon, Francine had begun to do the same. And now she was in limbo, spirit lost as she had yet to push forward or to turn back. It was insufferable.

She had to change the subject. Thankfully it wasn't difficult; the thing between her fingers had not been forgotten. And so the only sound for a minute was the crinkling of paper, unfolded as delicately as her shaky hands could muster.

"She…she gave me this." Sammy only saw the back of the parchment; even as it covered the lower half of her face from this angle, he could still glimpse a growing expression upon her face. There was something about it that he didn't like.

"Alice…she made me leave before I could ask about it." The photo was gingerly placed upon the table faceup for him to see. "Do you…" she began to ask, hesitation slowing her voice, "know who they are?"

It was wall to wall.

Black.

Black.

Black.

It was wet. It was cold. It soaked through cloth then flesh then bone. He could feel it chew at his legs like a starving dog pouncing on tablescraps.

He looked back. A wave gushed once more and had begun to swarm her waist. He knew somehow it longed to rise further, until nothing was left of them. It wanted to take everything- everything they were, everything they had. In the back of his mind, maybe he knew it wanted to take everything they would be.

The woman with auburn hair reached out just as the ink washed over him.

He heard her scream.

He could hear Susie scream.

* * *

Sammy's shadow loomed over the faded image of a white woman with dark hair and a black man wearing glasses. Francine felt worry eat into her. Every time they brought up his past, he seemed consumed by it, almost like he couldn't remember anymore, almost like trying stopped his brain entirely. So it was no surprise when he finally said:

"I don't know who they are."

So soon after she asked him to not keep secrets.

"Well there goes that idea," she sighed. And then she misinterpreted the silence of horror for that of guilt. "…Thank you anyway, Sammy. Don't worry about it." A tender glance fell upon him with words to match. "I know you can't help it."

No, he could not, but it was still his choice to lie when recollection finally succeeded. It was terrifying. Utterly terrifying. Was that him? Was that Susie? Who was Susie? That name was so fresh on his false tongue, like it was spoken or heard so many times before that he could feel it shape his lips by memory alone; surely it had mattered to him at some point.

It took him not even a minute to decide it didn't matter. Yes, he'd keep telling himself that, for Francine's journey and absence taught her one thing: that this was not their lord's way.

Certainly her barely scraping past death was not only the demon's grace but also his lesson. In his entire accursed life, Sammy had never strayed far from the path as this. And with it became fear. Just as he had been punished by the demon before, he had been now. He could still see the glorious silhouette of his lord stand above him after shoving the prophet to the floor.

Yes, he could see it now. For his sins, he had been forced to wait as the lost lamb found her way through the mazes of hell, helpless to coax her back. Sammy hadn't been that frightened before- not since…

He gulped as he caught remnants of when the ink demon first called upon him as his prophet.

"Hey," she said to wake him.

And he was back with her again. Suddenly she seemed much more…fragile. Not in the same way as when she was physically broken, bleeding internally and limp in his grasp. No, all he could see when he looked at the woman was the fear of her being spiritually broken.

It was something he had felt himself, and so it was something he couldn't bear. She was his blessing, and he was her steward. Her soul was his duty. His obligation. His purpose.

Oh how such care can contrast with that belonging to another.

As she stared down at the picture, an idea firmly clasped her heart and wouldn't let go. The demon's sneer was emerging over her. Like vines choking a sapling, it grew and grew until-

"I think we should try to talk to him."

Her eyes were wide with urgency, adrenaline suddenly filling her veins.

Him? Sammy shook his head, concern quickly coming. "He's mute, Francine. The projectionist-"

"No," she interrupted. That word came quickly but it was so much more difficult to allow the unthinkable into reality. "Bendy." Determination flashed over her eyes. "We need to talk to Bendy."

And certainly this was the most inconceivable idea possible. "Bendy" was a god. A being who only blessed disciples with his righteous presence by his own omniscient choice. Seek HIM out?! "R-" Sammy stuttered as absolute dread began to take him, the most taboo of concepts materializing from thin air. "Ridiculous! Absolutely not!" And just as she had unexpectedly become so bold, so had he. But he had to know. It didn't make a lick of sense- "What would be the purpose of seeking out our lord?"

Oh, would he regret having asked, as she had an answer at the ready like an arrow in a bow's string.

"I mean- I mean, it makes sense right?!" Her hands were thrown up in a gesture mixing both upset and a begging for him to understand. "We wanna know who you are- what the hell happened to you guys and this entire fucking place. Why not just ask him?" She shrugged. "He seems like he owns the place. Gotta- gotta know something about it, right?"

To think she could even approach him-!

And as her shrug lowered, she found Sammy rising. The shadow cast over the photo became longer and longer until it fell upon her face. Her bravado wavered as the shepherd became overwhelmed with a feeling she hadn't seen from him before- not like this.

Outrage.

"Don't." A pause. His voice almost shook. "Speak of him so recklessly."

It was a tone of seriousness that could never be surpassed, its icy frost piercing her until she could no longer meet his gaze. She brought her hands to her chest again, fiddling with them anxiously as her eyes fell upon-

Wait.

No.

It mattered. It still mattered.

And soon the woman had lifted herself over the table, thrusting the faces of the two lost souls of the photo right up to Sammy's mask so he could ignore them no longer.

"Don't you wanna know?!" Francine begged of him, "What about them?! They were PEOPLE, Sammy!"

His dark figure did nothing, even as he gazed upon who they used to be.

It teased him, it teased him so so much, but-

"These are forces we aren't to tamper with, my sheep." The return of his old term for her, a signal of his previous way of life returning, maybe even stronger than ever. "We are but specks of sand at the feet of our lord. We will never be worthy to understand…" His chin lowered and somehow his mask's hue became only more shadowy, emphasizing how desperately he needed to communicate this with her, how deeply mistaken she was. Abruptly, the photo placed in front of him was snatched from her grasp with a speed, with a force of disgust and certainty unmatched by any other. "…Until he deems us worthy."

And that was the straw that broke the camel's back.

"Give it back! I was just- I'm just-" Her torso leaned further across the table, in vain as he was so much taller than she. "I just want to help! I don't understand why that's so hard for you to get! Just let me help!"

"To 'get?!'" Oh what a terrible, meaningful scorn in his voice. It made her feel ghastly. "I don't want to know! I don't need to know!"

And in a finale, one last stretch and a groan led the woman to falling over the table entirely, a thud sounding as her ribs slammed against its surface.

And they were back in the past again, back when she first fell down from the spotlight onto her chest, back when he first found her in agony, hoping that through her, his lord would finally bring salvation.

And like before, he again offered no help as she struggled to pick herself back up, merely standing back and watching in amazement and outstretched limbs. The old, inky heart in his chest had never beat so fast before. This was everything he had ever feared- things he had never known existed to fear at all. And so even as it would sound so apathetic to her, his next words were of utmost kindness:

"I…shouldn't know, Francine." His shoulders drooped as her face lifted up to him, radiating confusion. "We are only meant to look ahead, not behind." And then his marred, wooden smile was level with hers, lowering to his knee. Maybe if he was truthful enough, maybe if he was vulnerable enough, she'd understand. She'd stop this foolish game of cat and mouse with the curse of the studio, pleading for it to take her as well.

"That is what our lord wants from us."

Her half-lidded eyes grew softer, and hope in his heart grew as she opened her mouth-

"You…deserve to know."

And the tides of longing took it away.

So he rose again alongside the boiling rage in his chest. He was going to say something utterly evil- please, please don't say it-

"Then go."

Breath left her as the woman saw Sammy merely stride out of the room and into the hall. Not another word, not another regard. That was the end.

How deeply ironic after having pledged to one another they would never leave the other's side.

Indeed, they both had made touching promises too soon out of hasty desperation, and their breaking was much more painful than the burden of patience would have been. The man that only wished to protect Francine threw her to the lions, and the woman that only wished to give Sammy what he once had would have to do it in spite of him. Funny how people so confidently do the opposite of what they want most.

And as she stood alone- truly alone- outside the closed door of the saferoom with her backpack slung over her shoulder, she had begun to realize that she could verbally dismiss the demon's power and presence but could not stop believing in her heart that he was something to be mortally afraid of.

But if he was death, then death's wisdom held more comfort than living in ignorance.


	39. A Turn of the Page

**39- A Turn of the Page**

" _Sow for yourselves righteousness; reap steadfast love; break up your fallow ground, for it is the time to seek the Lord, that he may come and rain righteousness upon you."_ \- Hosea 10:12

* * *

What a horrible loneliness it can become to be driven by your own stubbornness. Even if it's for another, it can only push them away. A flash of this exact sensation stung her for just a moment, but it was forcibly swiped aside. In its place stood the silhouette of the one she wanted to see most.

No, Bendy may not have been in sight physically, but as Sammy ached the back of her mind, his lord stood at its front.

And so she went.

…

Where to though?

At one of the shady corners of these weaving halls, the woman stopped in her steps. Damn it, she hadn't thought this through in the least- literally a straight walk from "maybe Bendy knows what we don't" to wandering the darkness with no end goal in mind. Her gaze turned up ahead towards the loud, pulsing machinery, like the organs of a monster that had consumed her. Didn't this route only lead to the Heavenly Toys anyway? And if she did find him-

"What the fuck would I say…?!" she whined under her breath, leaning one palm onto the metal wall.

Certainly, doubtlessly, this was a bite she took that was far too big to chew; it was so exhausting that mere minutes into her journey, she needed to catch her breath. And just for a second, she'd take that desperately needed moment to think and process what this search actually meant to her.

"I just want…" What…did she want? A sigh escaped her lips as she studied her own heart. What was there? It felt…warm somehow, this feeling. A desire, a burning one. Like a flame inside her chest that didn't know how to get out-

"I just want to feel okay again."

Suddenly nothing was there to keep her upright. The pressure against her palm was gone and she stumbled headfirst into…

Somewhere.

A yelp and a thud; that's all she heard. No metal creaking, no wood giving way…no sign of what had just occurred besides her own self living through it. The side of her head bounced once after it hit the floorboards, but it was immediate for her to lift herself off the ground. What the hell?

Yes, she had certainly fallen, as if the wall she had leaned against was never there at all. Her eyes fluttered away specs of white from the blow, watching her own arms force herself off of her side. Francine was just about to begin to stand up when she…she noticed something.

As she sat upon the floor, turning her head every which way, Francine knew this was not where she had been before. It was…too different to be the same place- from metal to wood and from murk with glimmers of equipment to a dim, ethereal luminescence a long radius around her. From the guts of machinery, she had fallen into a hall of wood and candlelight. The woman was disturbed but reluctantly knew she needed to investigate, and so she fully stood up with a light groan to spin around and take in whatever secret path she pressed open by accident.

…Wait. That couldn't be right.

She spun again. Then again. Then again.

How long had she second-guessed if it was her new headache making her dizzy, hallucinatory, before she noticed that it seemed like she fell from one world to the next? There were no holes. No doors. No sign that there was a connection between where she was and where she stood now. She had expected a break of some kind that lead her from there to here and its lacking left her utterly astounded and deeply troubled.

From one realm into the next absolutely seamlessly, like it was just the turn of the page in a book of fairy tales. Indeed, for her to just suddenly materialize here must have been magic's doing, and it took her breath away once more.

It was a hall somehow both lit and shadowed. Candles stood alongside the walls in a scarce, unorderly fashion; never was one close enough to another that the actual wax of both could be seen- besides the one near her feet, all others were dots quivering in darkness.

Indeed, she was placed in the middle room that seemed endless both to her left and to her right with nowhere else to go. A sweat broke onto her brow and she began to hyperventilate; she could only think of a few possibilities of what this could mean.

None of them were good.

Shoulders raised heavily with her labored breath and her cheeks squeezed up towards her eyes. "Breathe. Breathe. Not here. Not here," she begged herself.

One shaky deep intake of air after another, seeming to tremor more the harder she tried to fight an upcoming anxiety attack.

Francine closed her eyes.

…

…

…And opened them again, still breathing roughly as she finally decided to step in one direction of the endless wooden cave to find her way forward or backward.

There were only a few things her circumstance could mean, and none of them would let her stay. Whether this was a nightmare, the result of someone transporting her unconscious, or a phase between time and space itself…she couldn't be still.

She tried not think about what this could mean for her search of Bendy, unknowing it was her goal that had led her here. Omniscience was watching, but it could not control, so it merely prayed as Francine put one foot in front of the other.

Her round figure seemed to supernaturally fuzz into the blackness as it approached the path of lights, even the sound of her footsteps muting into nonexistence. It seemed unnatural for Sammy's sloshed ones to not join by her side.


	40. Surrounded

**40- Surrounded**

 _"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me."_ – Psalm 23:4

* * *

The hum of ethereal nothingness enveloped her every move forward; it found its way to her skin and sank from her pores into her very body until the essence of this ghostly plane was in tempo with her heart. This music of silence made her feel sick inside out.

How long had she been walking? She couldn't tell. The whole studio had been otherworld, certainly, but somehow this was even more so. It was a narrow but never-ending room with no doors, no windows- just the occasional splatter of ink staining the wood and seeping into its cracks. She looked upward as she kept walking, shadow fuzzing her peripheral vision. There was a pipe that ran across the center of the ceiling, and as she stared she noticed its pumping.

 _ **Pump.**_

 _ **Pump.**_

 _ **Pump.**_

Like a heartbeat, and she could see the liquid void swish its way over her head and behind to journey who knows where. Glimmers- she could see…flickers of golden yellow run along the ink, maybe the pipe's glass reflecting the candlelight-

The darkness at the corner of her eyes suddenly started to give her a headache, forcing her eyes to squeeze shut from the pain and her head to tilt back down, one hand coming to her temple to massage it well.

This had only stopped the woman for a brief second before she shook her head and stumbled back into step. She had to keep going towards whatever kept the ink pushing away. There was a premonition that it was a trail intended to be followed…or at least she'd make it one, hoping against hope. Her eyes steadied once again, the dusk chasing the corner of her sight seeming to pulse as her breath, which was noticeably difficult to regulate once again.

The lighting of this hall must be supernatural; even as her feet passed candles, their glow seemed to never take the darkness just behind her away. It was deeply unsettling and-

Suddenly a noise, like scurrying claws against floorboards accompanied by her gasp. Up ahead, barely- just barely- a shadow teased its way from the dimness ahead and retreated just as quickly. There was something up there. Instinctively, her left foot stepped backward on its toes, ready to pivot run away. Almost immediately, however, it was inexplicably swallowed by corpselike cold, the bare skin that peaked from underneath the hem of her pants prickling with goosebumps.

This was all it took for her to reluctantly but surely accept that despite whatever was waiting for her ahead, she couldn't turn back.

And it felt like as soon as she took another step forward and not back, the world faded away to black as she reached its threshold; as if it was merely a blink of the universe, the drear colors of the studio soon came back in new shapes.

The room was wide now and swamped with murk, swallowing the edges of what seemed to be chairs, tables, and posters. Instead of being endless ahead, it was endless side to side with a wall stretching in front. Despite the surprise of the sudden change of environment, it was a steadfast reflex by now to hit her righthand pants pocket for her phone to utilize its flashlight-

The slap at her thigh was as hollow in sound as her soul felt once she realized she had left it behind.

A flashlight soon wouldn't be what phone function she'd miss most.

Several meters away was a single door barely opened, a crack of light pouring in like a thin monolith, its radiance being the only thing that lit the room at all. It lined the silhouette of three beings that noticed her just as she noticed them. One head rose first above the others, glistening teeth at a mouth atop a skull ravaged with stitches; a thin rope traced from its forehead into an unblinking eye socket, and reached its way back out to wrap around its head. Then a second head moved- but this one _swung_ instead of raised as its body did, a wrecking ball resting in front of a torso undeniably carved with the word _"LIAR."_

She wanted to scream but she couldn't. And as she couldn't scream, she couldn't even dream to sing as the angel had taught her before. If the projectionist seemed to be like a child's ragdoll torn apart and pieced back together by the curse of the studio, then these creatures were its _voodoo._

As Francine struggled to sing- not even sure if it'd work on monsters like _this-_ it came out in croaks. One syllable broken up into three, four, five until it could no longer be called music but whimpering. It was like Francine a scared little girl standing in front of the monsters in her closet, quietly chanting a lullaby her mother promised would drive fear away to simply no avail; the butcher gang rose from their feet and she seemed to shrink down.

The gremlin with their mouth sewn shut stared at her with intent, a shine coming over that single eye as it abruptly raised the metallic one of their three arms, ready to strike-

Another arm raised in front of it.

A soul unknown to the woman was standing in front of their brethren, back turned to them as they stared her down, unchanging even as its handless limb lowered once more. The Striker flinched back and turned their attention to the chimp-like monster that blocked them, twitching restlessly and curiously. This was a gesture of caution, certainly, but why? Indeed, as the woman stood opposed to them, she was shaking, feeble, and helpless; she had no weapon and certainly her fists alone couldn't hold back all three of them.

And yet the Piper knew to be wary of all Francine brought with her.

All three of the gang's eyes seemed to gape just above her until finally, the Fisher stepped back and led the trio's fleeing, taking mere seconds for all three to disappear as they ran to one side of the room with no end in sight.

Even as she had time to catch her breath, the bizarre, unsettling nature of this encounter still made her voice quiver. "Th-thank you," she muttered certainly too low for them to hear by now. The only thing she could consider this with the little information she had was that it was a kindness; they had allowed her entry to the next phase of this world. Francine supposed the individual with a single hand was to thank for that, having ceased… _whatever_ the other was ready for.

It left her, however, with only more questions for when she finally confronted Bendy, the ruler of this blighted kingdom. The frustration of it rekindled the fires of determination, and so she finally picked herself up and marched sternly to the now unguarded door. Her hand came in front of her, reaching for the doorknob bathed in the glow ahead-

Francine paused precisely in place, fingers outstretched in front of the slit of light pouring in and over her. One half of her knuckles were brushed with the room's gloom and the other with the luminescence of whatever lay ahead, their color was split evenly into two like she was at the eclipse between one realm and the next standing at this door. But like before with the appearance of the butcher gang, this shadow did not stay still.

The darkness that had been huddling at the edge of her vision the whole time washed in and out like a tide, its rhythm in tandem with the shadow upon her hand now. Somewhere behind, she finally heard a drip.

Francine didn't need to turn around to comprehend that someone was watching over her now and had been since her arrival.

Yes, the Piper had learned not long ago that the woman shouldn't be trifled with.

Not when **he** was there.


	41. Sinking Memories

**41- Sinking Memories**

" _And we know that the Son of God has come and has given us understanding, so that we may know him who is true; and we are in him who is true, in his Son Jesus Christ. He is the true God and eternal life."_ – 1 John 5:20

* * *

 **Drip.**

 **Drip.**

 **Drip.**

With a soft, almost teasingly sweet _plunk!_ , one of the bathroom faucets leaked drop after drop of water into a sink stained with ink. True, sometimes the water in the plumbing was tainted with dribbles from the ink machine's leaks, but it wasn't today; clear drips fell down alongside the occasional solid black streak that fell from beneath Sammy's mask. He watched them slide and smear their path to the piping, bits of him running down this abyss of a drain to end up who knows where. The sight of it caused a tightening of the man's knuckles, the overhead lights' reflection moving over his glossy form as his grip tensed.

Sammy finally lifted his head to look in the grimy glass above the sink, face to face with a man melting away. If his solidness or lack thereof was a reflection of his emotional stability, then his body was the true mirror. How did he feel? Empty? Lonely? _Wrong?_ He couldn't place it- not at all. It was simply a deep, unwavering discomfort that sought to take over his entire being like an army sweeping over enemy countryside.

…Faith. Yes, it had to do with his faith-

He shook his head in a single but firm swing, drops of his ink splattering in a thin line over the porcelain. He caught a glimpse of a scowl behind his mask, gritting teeth and curling lips. The last time he was this angry, the prophet recalled who he was and how his master would judge; when the woman first arrived and Sammy didn't know what to do about her survival, he trusted the ink demon above his own instincts of stress. For the sake of his soul and their salvation, he recomposed.

The fact he couldn't do so again now only made this moment sting worse.

A hefty sigh got stuck in his throat, escaping his mouth as a groan. Might as well have been a groan of pain. What was he to do? It had been proven so briefly before that Francine shouldn't be by herself- that this was certainly not what his lord had intended for her- and yet Sammy not only allowed her to leave but _told her to go._ This was his fault. All his fault.

Suddenly the sight of his sickly, inhuman body in the mirror was unbearable, and a closed fist slammed its side at the glass.

A quivering gasp came out and slowly unfolding fingers started to tremble as Sammy saw the face of his lord where his hand had hit, masking peeking from beneath his palm as it began to stain his own reflection. It was amazing how intact his guise was; despite decade upon decade of suffering and peril, it was still recognizable as the visage of the ink demon. No number of scrapes or blows to the wood and paint could take away its glory.

…By his god's grace, it and Sammy were still unbroken.

A second sigh, one of realization, one of remorse as Sammy relaxed his fist, and a flattened palm reverently touched the face of his lord before falling back to his side. Conflict boiled in his hollow chest like a cauldron brewing doubt. The ink demon knew them, watched them, _cared for them._ The nature of his master once again alluded him, and he suddenly felt so very unsure about his sheep's pursuit of truth.

He witnessed his lips purse behind the hole of his mask before turning away to leave.

Truth…truth…

As he leaned one arm onto the doorway of the bathroom, he knew what the truth was. This whole time, he tried to escape it. He blocked out the memories of Sammy Lawrence to the point that passing his name over and over, day after day, could hold no meaning. It was both the obscuring curse of the studio and his own unwillingness to remember that caused his ignorance. It made sense to be ignorant, after all; to recall what he used to have in reminiscence rather than hope meant to long for what he would never have again. If-… _when_ the demon released them, he could regain his body. He could regain his mind. But he could never once again be who he was _when_ he was.

Realizing there was something his god couldn't give him was absolutely unbearable, and-

" _NO!"_

With a slight forward bounce of the head, Sammy screamed at no one besides himself to stop. Regardless of whether or not this thought was true, it was not to be acknowledged for the sake of his own emotional security. His foundation of faith could not afford to have another crack, lest it crumble beneath his feet and plunge him into the oblivion so many souls trapped in the studio allowed themselves to be taken by.

His panting chest straightened a bit as Sammy spotted the table in the living room just up ahead. The photo. Even as it threatened to oppose everything he was, he had to see the photo. He knew its image revealed who they used to be.

But as he reached the table he had surely left it, it was gone.

As he had been lamenting his decisions and the very nature of his existence in the bathroom, something happened in this room. There was no sign of it now- and so Sammy assumed the woman took it with her- but something had happened to that photograph before he could find it.

Ink had dripped little by little from the ceiling, weighing the aged paper till it was pinned to the table and eventually drowned entirely by its black. The small pool that had formed bubbled just a bit before dissipating into nonexistence, leaving nothing but the surface of the table, like maggots cleaning a bone of its flesh.

All that was there to take was her phone, and so with reluctance, Sammy did so- unsure what it could do for him but also unsure what else he could grasp to save himself.

For some reason, Sammy felt he couldn't save Francine this time; he couldn't the time before, after all. And now she was chasing what he knew he could never. But as he remembered his lord standing over him- preventing the prophet from rescuing his lamb- Sammy also accepted that despite his sin, she would be okay. Even if he could not comprehend his ways, the ink demon would watch over his friend, even as she pursued the unattainable.

* * *

Francine could hear the rough breath of the ink demon over her shoulder- could _feel_ it too, unless that was simply the supernatural cold that seemed to follow in his shadows. As she had chased him, she still hadn't answered for herself exactly what she was doing, just what she wanted to say. She identified a feeling- "to be okay"- and nothing more. As the god of this realm stood over her, precisely where she wanted to be, she had never once asked herself if she knew what to beg of someone she deemed to be all-knowing.

A gulp slithered down her throat. She could start with the obvious and immediate, even as the possibility of questioning it could bring her out of the demon's favor.

"Why- why am I here?" she asked with a pivot- or at least the start of one. She stopped halfway, looking over her shoulder as the sight of the inky god took her breath away. Now that she had turned, all the light from the doorway ahead had slid past her nose and fallen upon him; underneath the yellow radiance, it allowed her to observe how the ink upon his body **moved,** its flesh never still; it constantly dripped down, and yet like Sammy surrounded by candlelight, this light showed he could melt and melt but never entirely away.

It made her realize once again that Bendy and the people made in his image were far, far away from anything she could be or understand.

Silence followed. The only sound was his **drips.**

Her shoulders rose and fell in quick succession a few times as she began to grasp the situation. Eyes flew forward to stare at the watercolor aura of his washing over her and bleeding into the endless darkness of the hall, now in front of her. She couldn't see him anymore- couldn't bear to- but her right shoulder prickled with the all-too familiar six sense of knowing the demon had begun to loom closer.

 **Drip.**

 **Drip.**

 **Drip.**

They accompanied a pained, inhuman yet so human wheeze barely whispered through a never-changing smile that stretched around his head. A pain of her own pierced her chest, her heart beating so fast it began to ache.

Adrenaline is a hell of a thing.

Francine suddenly whipped around to fully face him, eyes shut tight with fear, anger, and perseverance so she may endure whatever her foolish longing would bring her.

"What the heck happened?! _Why are we all here like this?! WHAT HAPPENED TO MAKE ALL THIS-"_

She had started to scream before realizing she was doing so straight at the ink demon, a shift in his stance audible enough for her to open her eyes in surprise and shut up. Two things happened simultaneously. One- a hyperventilating Francine took a step back in terror, causing her to slip on her heel and throw her back onto the door with a soft thud, the slit of light disappearing from Bendy's eternal grin as she accidentally closed the only exit shut.

Two- she saw the ink demon's shoulder roll back as his right arm lifted towards her.

She was unsure to be grateful or to curse how a glow still streamed underneath the door in dim rays, barely making visible as for the second time since her arrival to the studio, Bendy let his ungloved claws rest in the air in front of her.

…And once again, it did not move to touch her. As the muscles of her back pressed into the door, arms outstretched side to side with their fingers trying to clasp flat wood, the panting woman tilted her chin up and saw him as he was before; besides this gesture, he was still unmoving.

He was waiting for her, Francine began to realize.

The first time this had occurred, she was so in awe that she thoughtlessly reached for this being- the one she believed to be her savior. As she questioned now if he truly was, it was left uncertain if she should reach for him again.

As his beastly paw rested between them, the smaller of his two hands still so so gigantic as it stayed beside her torso, clearly she had no choice.

Maybe she shouldn't have been so surprised that yet again, his hand consumed hers- totally engulfing her flesh with his own like a swarming flood- but she was. Deathly cold for a split second, then she felt nothing at all. And then, once more…something in her hand.

The ink demon had answered her prayers. And yet, she could not understand.

"The…that…" Despite how shaky her hand was, how dark swallowed them, she could still see a photograph in her hands once his inky arm released hers. It was the very one Alice gave and Sammy took away. "How- how did-"

No answer. He simply stood, soundless omnipotence.

Her heavy breathing couldn't muddle the loudness of her thoughts- the clambering of questions and the shouting of impossibilities. But it was just-…just a photo! The scientist in her was baffled, and confusion curdled into frustration.

"What…?!" she whispered breathlessly, pulling the picture close to her face, squinting at it in hopes to see something she hadn't before. There was the man, the woman, the microphone, and the script. She repeated the list over and over to herself as she searched for something more. Man, woman, microphone, script-…and nothing else, no matter how hard she looked.

A gaping mouth and eyes tightened but still open with bewilderment turned up to the ink demon, wordlessly begging for answers. This was his response to her questions. It had to be. He was truly a mystery- sometimes entirely unfathomable in purpose- but surely this meant _something._

Francine studied him as he refused to answer. His hoarse breath roughened his throat, hardly coming out like a whisper with no translation. There were no more gestures; just the ink that slowly flowed from his body and infected the floorboards, her eyes following until they fell to the picture again-

Wait- the back! She didn't check the back!

A turn of the paper, however, also bore no fruit. Nothing more than incomprehensible smudges of some kind greying the page-

Just as she was about to turn her gaze up to the god once again, his giant, barely solid hand curled all his fingers but one and gently tapped the back of the photograph.

And as he held it there, it began to **change.**

The smudges swirled and faded, converging like paint in water gushing backwards to their source. The ink upon the paper concentrated in place, and the fingertip of the demon lifted so she may read what was written long, long ago.

"…' _with greatest love, Joey,'_ " she read aloud.

Wait.

 _Crack._

"…Joey," she repeated under her breath, her tongue sure it felt these syllables before.

 _Crack._

"Joey." A little louder this time for her own ears to hear and examine. She had heard it- she had heard that name-

 _Crack._

Her heart jumped straight up into her mouth, ready to scream as revelation sparked her mind.

"JOEY-"

The studio cracked open not even a second after the mystery did and her shout turned into a shriek. The floor fell open beneath her, and her arm threw itself up to the ink demon as he continued to do nothing but stare as she began to plummet down, down, down.

Too close. She had gotten too close. All that was felt now was a gut-wrenching fear of the totally new and unknown, of destinies unforeseen.


	42. Drifting Rooms

**42- Drifting Rooms**

" _And he made from one man every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth, having determined allotted periods and the boundaries of their dwelling place…"_ – Acts 17:26

* * *

Footsteps were unfathomably so soft yet so loud in Sammy's ears as he mindlessly sauntered back into the apartment's hallway. The place was still instinctively unfamiliar, and yet he couldn't take in its simple sights as was normally his way; his wandering companion's cellphone was more than enough to enrapture his full attention. Although the gaping hole of his mask maybe wasn't wide enough to display more than a mouth, it was enough for an audience to see solemn yet disturbed interest in what he held within his grasp.

The black glass lined with thick, pink plastic stared back at him. Almost like a solid, still version of the machine's ink, it seemed like a portal. Sammy certainly knew it was; much of its nature alluded him- as was to be expected when only just beginning to learn about _well_ over half a century of society that had continued without those of the studio- but he comprehended that somehow, someway it collected and archived films from past and present. Seemed to do more than that, too, but that was looking in between the lines of her explanation in the music room, a gentle smile on her lips and eyes glimmering with whimsy as she observed his staring at the screen.

What more could it do, he wondered…as he was unsure how to even turn it on as she had done herself many a time. Sammy allowed his mind to drift even as the revelations and mysteries of the past few moments left his heart aching; it was like a billowing wind had blown through him and he was scavenging pieces of the debris to mold a raft, a place to stand and wait out the waves of sorrow and doubt as he waited for his friend to return.

He could see his hands tighten around the phone, twitching with a slight quiver of dissonance he needed to cast aside before it spread. Yes, she would certainly return. He would just have to weather the storm that came with her absence.

The mask lifted from facing his cupped hands as he passed the threshold of the hall, entering the room she had claimed as her own. It wasn't until now, however, that Sammy finally saw how she had truly tried to build her own sanctuary in this world after everyone else seemed to deny her theirs.

At some point without his acknowledgement, Francine's bag was emptied and spilled out the remnants of her previous way of being, staining the room with nostalgia for her and newness for him. The few items from her past delivered by the ink demon so they may follow her from her old life into the next were scattered across the room's surfaces. His hands and their phone lowered as his chin lifted, taking it all in. Red caught the corner of his eye first- that all too familiar blemished mahogany, the color of her introduction. The prophet thoughtlessly walked to the gurney as upon it rested that strange cloak- that… "hood-ee," as she called it before- the woman had worn when she first ran the halls and confronted salvation. It had been shed like shorn wool but not forgotten, at least not by the sheep. Just as he reached one hand and grasped at the cloth, he recognized the care she had treated it with after inky abuse; the dark tinges of her own body and of the black puddles were much fainter than before, tangible memories almost entirely retracted from reality as she had clearly put effort in washing them away.

Suddenly it was just like when he had held this shirt to his chest days before. Even as he understood it was being tainted again now with his touch, he still didn't want to let go.

Equally abruptly, the shelf in this room began to call for him. And so the phone and the hoodie were tenderly lifted, the former in his left hand and the latter cradled with his right, a sleeve dangling over his arm like she did once in their past.

There was one blaringly obvious object, a picture propped up against a few items left here by the saferoom's unknown previous owner. Fresh paper was so astonishingly bright against the wilting yellow of the studio's; the colors of the boy's portrait upon it simply added to that glare, a missing child poster the woman had kept on her person up till her arrival both acting as a decoration and as a reminder that there were things worth waiting for.

Other things were rested upon the shelves, too, but his eyes slid over each one until he saw a pale gold glimmer; it was different from that of the candles, however- somehow warmer to look at than flames themselves. It was a thin loop of metal with something facetted to it. He didn't recognize it as a clear and sealed glass locket, dried flowers trapped inside that forever displayed what Francine might never touch again.

Surrounded by the woman's aura, it washed over him, held him, and consoled him for his foolishness. Like the small plant in her necklace, the bright hues bloomed around him and speckled his universe with a rainbow he had never seen. As he slowly turned and rested his weight upon the hammock, what Francine had brought with her stood out amid his existence much like she herself did, laying upon his lap and arching over and behind his glossy shoulders. Enveloped by who she had been up until she fell from grace, Sammy finally started to cross over the edge of understanding into why she had run after the demon.

This was her home now, and the least she could do was try to find peace within it. And as his thumb's anxious pressing accidentally lit the phone up once more, Sammy felt this same temptation sink into him.

The clock ticked, the doll watched, and the mask shadowed his vision, but even among the faces of his lord, he was still powerless to the virus of Francine's longing. Riptides dragged him from the shores of memory to sail the unknown.

* * *

As she fell, Francine could feel liquid fly past her, striking her skin like a whip and crawling over her face. In the brief moment she was here it was recognized that ink was falling with her too, waterfalls and drips of various sizes and maybe even speeds. Besides her own shriek, little could be heard. What noise there was, however…was poignant.

Haunted whispers. Muted groans. Distant screams.

…None her own.

Just as her own fright ceased blaring so loud just enough for her to recognize this unfathomable reality, Francine witnessed the endless darkness she was plummeting towards cease to exist, silhouettes of floorboards and splintering wood making a ring around a sudden, dim light.

It grew brighter and bigger and brighter and bigger-

The woman groaned upon impact as her cheek hit a surface. Shock momentarily stunned her wits, but soon there was recognition. Something cold was hitting her face, and she felt it weigh her clothes and gently pull them down. Eyelids fluttered and saw her fist in front of her, protecting Alice's photograph from the black that swallowed the lower half of her hand.

Lifting herself up, Francine began to grasp that she had once again been transported by a force totally beyond her comprehension and dropped somewhere new. Damn it- nothing made sense-!

Just as she had begun to lament her frustrations, Francine's soul was taken by the fact that she really, truly, was somewhere else, and the sensations that accompanied her arrival were utter nonsense. She felt like she had fallen forever, the floor broken beneath her feet, _rematerialized,_ only then to open once more for her to enter like it was a wormhole. She blinked and twisted her neck all around her not in observance but in investigation. Of course there wasn't any sign of her entrance, yet again.

This second realm, however, had a different sort of spell about it than the last.

Unlike the lane of candles and the gallery with the guarded door, this place was filled with sound instead of deathly quiet. _Cl-cl-cl-cl-cl-cl-cl!_ Ticking wasn't the right word; it was-

One last turn of the head put a projector into view, her god's most innocent form blinking upon the wall not bathed in light but as a part of it.

She stepped through it, whiteness passing over her eyes until she emerged into a labyrinth. Walls curved and bent every which way, streaming film lighting the tight halls but barely making it visible at all. Her palms rose and gripped over the next corner, unsure what was waiting for her-

Just as she peaked in, she triply as quickly hid away, chest rising and falling and a grimace wiped across her expression in terror. Curiosity being her nature despite every instinct of self-preservation, she repeated her approach to glimpse into the small nook in the wall.

Yes, that was a corpse of one of the monsters she just saw before. Yes, that was a severed heart laying by its side.

She couldn't have sprinted ahead through this never-ending pool fast enough.

The woman saw ink skim over her scuffed shoes once she finally stopped, bending over and holding her knees, panting due to both winded lungs and a panicked mind. Her head lifted, and hair moved out of her sight like a parting curtain to reveal she was sincerely lost.

" _As if I wasn't already,"_ she grumbled to herself. But spite couldn't push away alarm, no matter how much she hoped otherwise. No, she couldn't discard what had just occurred with the ink demon, the dread at what it all may mean and why this was being done to her. Air huffed through her teeth in an exhale of both grief and frustration.

 _Joey._

 _Joey._

 _Joey._

She didn't know what that name may imply- what Bendy wanted her to learn from it so shortly before being forcefully dismissed from his presence- but the more she mulled over it, the more it began to pulse…and pulse turned into drive. Even as dread fell upon her shoulders, Francine found herself standing upright once again and marching through this murk to wherever she was intended to be next-

One last step. One final splash as the woman's eyes found familiarity in a land previously unknown.

She recognized that booth.

A Little Miracle Station was placed just around the next bend. She could tell it was vacant, as its door was open and hardly hinged to its base. Almost like something tried to rip it off…

Or someone.

Flitting radiance suddenly fell over her shoulders to the blank wall ahead, showing her that the shadow of an old friend had joined hers. Trembling, Francine shifted her chin to gaze upon the projectionist as she disrupted his domain once again.


	43. Pictures

**43- Pictures**

" _If I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing."_ \- 1 Corinthians 13:2

* * *

A gasp before anything else once Francine recognized where she was. The sound of her shifting feet splashing was barely an interruption to the overwhelming dread, hardly there to break horrific silence. Limbs outstretched and head bobbing with heavy breath, it was undeniable that the woman was standing before the one and only projectionist-

"N-Norman!" she croaked, unbearable weight upon her tongue as she uttered a name unexpected.

Norman mirrored her stance in his own way, surprised- maybe even shocked if he was capable of such emotional or mental depth- but not terrified as she was. As the world twisted its way around Francine, she had much more to contemplate than the projectionist did, the being who simply was at hand upon her arrival. While she fell from one existence to the next, to him she just plopped in like a drop of rain without a cloud in sight. A mystery to them both, but with drastically different outlooks.

The machine attached to his neck all too humanly titled in curiosity as her skull angled further and further back alongside his slow approach. A few sounds: her sharp yet hushed breath, the clicking of the projectors- including his own-, and the sloshing of the shallow black pool beneath and over the warped man's boots. He didn't stop until the source of his light was inches from her face, her lower eyelids squinting up but unable to close as absolute astonishment faceted them into place.

The longest moment of silence, rays of his sight crawling around the woman and making painfully obvious how every last muscle in her face had tightened in utter trepidation.

…A sudden, slightly more distinct _click!_ and Norman's gaze dulled alongside a sharpened demeanor. Somehow a screech from his chest's speaker conveyed mildness, and his shoulders rolled back and his arms lifted to repeat his strange hello.

This greeting, of course, was not received as lightly.

Just like their last meeting, Norman had put his hands to the woman's face, looking for any vibrations- signs of sounds he could no longer create himself- to enrapture him. As they found their way, she found herself panicking…and the passing of time gave her more reason to.

Eyeballs shook in their sockets as Francine looked upon the projectionist, his light not being the only cause of her squinting. His fingertips felt her struggling lungs, hums of desperation in her throat, and finally, words from her lips.

"Im… it's… that's not- that's-…." His thumb felt the corner of her mouth as she eventually found the only word that could explain all this. "…Impossible," she hardly stuttered, amazement glossing over her eyes.

And that it was. Now, surely it was incredible- inconceivable- that when she first set off to find Bendy, a lean of rest made her stumble into a ghostly hall unknown with no sign of her entrance. It was the same when the endlessness stopped being from forward and back and suddenly began side to side, and especially so when the floor broke open beneath her feet just as the ink demon bestowed upon her a letter from long ago. But this? This was confirmation of something she couldn't fathom.

Her being in Norman's grasp once again suggested that the building itself had reshaped around her, as if being soaked in the ink caused magic to seep through the wood and make it pliable.

And suddenly that realization overtook every other horror being in this monster's arms had brought. Abruptly his touch was too invasive not only into her personal space but her thoughts, as they were already suffocating among themselves alone.

"Stop!" she demanded, her voice taking a tone not too different from that of a child begging a sibling to refrain from poking them- bar the emotions that come with reality seeming to crumble around her. Such confidence, however, didn't take long to entirely wane, for alongside her speaking she had firmly gripped his wrists and tried to push them back, and his response reminded her that she was truly within his clutches.

Indeed, she was certainly a toy within his hands as her touch distracted him from one part of her body to another. Norman's fingers retracted from her face and swiftly maneuvered to hold _her_ wrists in return.

Now, anyone watching would soon be able to tell that the projectionist in this moment wasn't far from a fascinated toddler, captured by sensations and touch and wishing to investigate them simply for his own satisfaction. As his right thumb smoothed over the palm of her left and their other hands found his fingers wrapping past her knuckles, he either couldn't feel her racing pulse or opted to ignore it. A hold of naïve enthrallment was nothing besides a nightmare for her as she recalled the way he had ripped open the very door they stood beside now not too long ago. She wanted to yell, but the culmination of this ordeal seemed to have stolen her voice.

But somehow, the silence of terror began to allow some logical thought; it was likely staring right into the face of whom she had come to…"visit" that had brought up an idea. And the importance of this possible revelation gave her the courage to try to reposition her right hand into something more explanatory.

Norman saw her quivering eyes just behind the photograph, the paper blocking the bottom of her face as she could not hold it within clear sight. She had remembered why she was here and of the piece of the past still in her possession, and even though it wasn't much…she finally felt a sense of direction.

It made sense to see this encounter as only an extension of her journey- or at least it would make sense of why Bendy seemed to bid she go so shortly after giving her the beginning of the answer. Maybe the rest laid with the man that possessed thoughts but no words. Maybe…maybe somehow, he could help…was _intended_ to help.

His light blinked and came back brighter as the photo looked back at him, and the woman felt his grasp grow gentler as his mind was drawn to other things. Then there was another slight tilt of his projector accompanied by a simultaneously soft and sharp sound from his chest, almost like a pet bird making a noise of inquiry as something new is placed into its cage. His illumination slid over the two people with such brilliance that it was almost only their outline that he could see, but…

As the woman felt his clasp linger off her hands to be replaced at the corners of the photo, he seemed to be hypnotized by the man and woman in black and white. It was…tender, even. So magically, the man with no eyes could gaze at the image in front of him, and a face with no expression somehow seemed to melt for people long gone.

Of course, her heart melted too and so she was also swept away- having never expected such sentiment from the projectionist- but after a moment or two of watching him study the photo dearly, it grew to be the time she do what she came here to do.

"Do you know who they are?" she asked quietly, wanting to interrupt his trance without disturbing him. But ah of course, he could say nothing in return as he _heard_ nothing, and Francine had a frown of dismay cross her lips as she remembered he was not only mute but deaf.

There had to be something though. There had to be.

"Hold on," she explained more to herself than to him, using one finally free hand to pinch the top of the paper and coax him into turning it over. Norman did so, and her face lit up even without his light as he seemed to recognize-

And oh how loud did he _scream._

It was so abrupt, so different from him even when he had scared her the most, and his shriek seemed to pierce every corner of the maze and rattle every drop of ink upon the floor; she could still feel either its distress or its outrage no matter how far away she fled. By a miracle, she eventually stepped through the exit of the labyrinth but didn't stop bolting until she reached the top of the stairs to the elevator.

Francine exhaled a sigh to relieve both anxiety and worry as she hit a button upon the wall's panel. Maybe the projectionist couldn't handle Joey's name but reemerging into the angel's halls reminded her where she had heard it before; she would need to press on without his help nor his blessing.

And certainly she didn't seem blessed to walk the path she had chosen, Norman's cries gradually muting away as the elevator rose and obscured the warren he hid among.

She swore the lights didn't seem to blink in nearly as much of a frenzy as this than the last time she was in here.

Back in his lair, the projectionist began to hold his "head," twisting and turning almost as if he could shake off his distress; amid his writhing, the photo fell to the puddles.

And then the ink took it back.

* * *

When Sammy first found his faith, it was everything. All that was, all that would be, and all that was now. Bendy was inexplicably the encompassing aura of his entire universe, and so it was only logical for both his mind and for his soul to trust that this entity was the one to believe in; it is almost effortless to believe in the person or thing that seems to make your world what it is.

But the existence of one's god is inevitably painted by their worshiper's brush. The being that represents all that everything is can easily be reshaped and rewritten by even the most fleeting of emotions.

But Sammy was strong in spirit, and as his life changed little over such an extensive, unnatural period of time, so had remained his faith.

To feel it shaken was utterly frightening. And as many do when they aren't sure about the nature of being, he mindlessly looked for answers.

What did her phone seem to contain? Answers.

Answers to questions he never asked.

Blessedly, the first app he picked by accident was her photo album. Now, before all he had witnessed the phone do was glow and perform; maybe it would have been commonsense to assume that still pictures could exist within it as well, but Sammy was totally off-guard nonetheless.

Or maybe the surprise was in learning he wasn't the only one among the two one keeping secrets.

Why didn't she ever tell him about her family? Sure, he knew vaguely the existence of a "Gabby," but she seemed to have allowed his memory to drift away so that she may find peace with however long they'd be apart. But just as he had attempted to hide his "family"- the residents of the studio forced to share this cursed fate- she had hidden hers. But even as she abandoned them and along with all she used to have, it dawned upon him that she still kept them in her heart.

She confined inside a great, great care for the people she left behind. He could see it in their smiles, and they had returned it. In their holds around her waist. In the way their eyes pinched with joy, with happiness, with-

A word he hadn't thought about in a long time came next, one that was previously reserved only for worship. It was so mighty, so overpowering that he could no longer stare at the people who radiated it, spreading this spell into the air through the screen's glow.

He forced his chin up to break from this enchantment only to see that as he had done before many times in his life, he had unconsciously wandered into other parts of the studio without his recognition. Somewhere entirely new once again, he was placed in these halls in search of something. There had been occasions before where he had been called to retrieve what Bendy brought from the outside, but now was the time he find something within.

And for the first time in many, many years, Sammy acted upon a longing to rediscover the life that was stolen from him, the people he used to love.


	44. Facing Fears

**44- Facing Fears**

" _Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled."_ \- Matthew 5:6

* * *

There was certainly magic in that ink. It slithered away like high tide pulling back just as Sammy spotted it pool along the floor. With a brief glimmer, he was left with a wall near each shoulder and an opening just ahead. There was a sign over the doorway, bronze that seemed to rust into the same color pallet as the rest of the yellowing studio. He tilted his head towards it for a minute, taking in this simple novelty amid a world everchanging yet so very worn under his feet, and then he emerged through the gate.

He was soon encircled by a blockish pattern all around. There were papers everywhere, like someone before he in a craze had dug through every last folder, book, and album in search of something they had lost. As shelves of this archive towered over him, it seemed as if the pages had spilled from its crevasses like ink would spew from the ever-present pipes.

To anyone else it would have been an absolute mess- they'd be completely dismayed to try to find something among it all- but to Sammy? It was all new. He knew not how he came to be here, nor what exactly he was supposed to find, but the drive in his soul was undeniable.

Sammy was within a treasure trove of memories, the terrible things that smothered him and blinded him, and yet he would remain. As his thumb smoothed over his friend's phone, there was a nameless desire to fill his life where it suddenly seemed so, so empty.

* * *

Everything about the world appeared so much more volatile to Francine than before. Sure, the shock that accompanied all the realizations traversing the angel's realm the first time had been distracting, but it wasn't enough so for the woman to not notice differences.

She clung to this reality without deliberating it, without asking why the elevator seemed to rattle more nor why it seemed to carry her with abrupt changes in speed. It was a likewise acknowledgement without comprehension as when she stepped into the halls, ink seeming to gush more forcefully than before, causing the pooling and piles of black along the floor to writhe; the never-ceasing pump of the ink machine made it run past her shoes like a stream, the faster the farther she tried to squirm her way out.

Indeed, it unquestionably got worse the closer she came to the room she wanted to reach. Francine, of course, wasn't present long ago when the studio was last this disturbed; she wasn't aware this was also how it once grew to treat a man visiting 30 years after its fall from glory. Yes, it wasn't familiar to her- but it was regardless a previously known, chaotic commotion to this building rotten with hurt feelings.

And abruptly, another familiarity from an unknown counterpart's journey had arrived to further mirror their blights. Its blade had a line of light glide off its edge with a glare as she turned the corner, and a heart already beating at top speed somehow broke its own record.

Somehow as the pipes seemed to hum with agitation rather than a slow vigor and their blood seemed even more alive last she was here- even as the stare of the cutouts and toys made in their god's image never left her for a second- the sight of the axe merely leaning against a propped-up board was what finally made her stop in her tracks and freeze her veins.

Although much of the disciples' conflict was centered around Sammy's memories enveloping him, Francine still had her own. When the woman was rather a little girl, her mother once asked her to open a high cabinet to grab honey from the shelf of spices and other such wonders that seemed to make their food spark upon the tongue. Excitement- Frankie was finally tall enough to do it, her mommy had said! She could help!

There was something her mother forgot to tell her, of course.

A yank of the cabinet door was just a touch too eager, and one of the knives kept at the very top shelf within suddenly blinked away and reappeared between the toes her mother had named "this little piggy went to market" and "this little piggy stayed home." Francine immediately yelped and jumped back, slipping on the aluminum floor of the kitchen until she sat face to face with her dulled reflection upon the blade. Such falling back, however, was not necessary.

Almost right where her foot used to be, the knife never simply sputtered on its side to the floor. It stuck straight up, a quarter of an inch of its tip missing from sight.

That's why Francine hated sharp objects.

She gripped the straps of her backpack anxiously. She knew this fear wasn't severe enough to be a phobia, but there was no mistake that it was unsettling something deep inside her and the way the studio bothered her now made it like shaking a jar of bees. However, with the chipped metal's sheen staring her back, the woman accepted a truth she very much wished to ignore.

With extreme caution, Francine got on one knee, contemplated the axe, and gradually reached so its handle rested in her tightened palms. Such tenderness in her grip that came with fear and inexperience was her enemy, she realized, and so she did her best to force her knuckles firmer and to not constantly dread dropping the blade onto her feet as she once again began to walk her path.

She hoped she wouldn't need it.

If she had been unsure before about this place being different since the last time she was here, she certainly noticed now. This was the last corner before that room, right? The one where she heard his name first in passing rather than ponderance, now praying it could reveal something she hadn't looked for before. She might as well have been acting upon instinct to find it the way everything seemed swamped into obscurity with ink and shadow-

And the anticipating welling in her chest dropped like a stone, finally stepping into the cove that kept her next objective only to find it entirely blocked. She gaped at it, disbelieving even when the studio had grown and grown more hostile and uneasy the nearer she knowingly approached secrets in plain sight.

As splintered wood caged Joey Drew's tape to render it untouchable, extending from floor to ceiling with murky liquid at their ends like a swarming glue, that's when she knew something was a _ctively_ trying to keep her away from the truth.

Or someone.

Ink began to drip like rain and the structures around her seemed to have cracked into new, unwelcoming shapes, and just around the bend lurked the ink demon's smile.

It slipped out of sight.

The studio thundered and wood cracked as soon as the chase began, her feet flying after those of the demon. Black waterfalls slammed. Darkness swirled. But she still ran. It was about fuckin' time she got the answers she came for.


	45. The Path of the Demon

**45- The Path of the Demon**

 _"When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you."_ – Isaiah 43:2

* * *

And then two heroes' stories merged into one.

Both of the disciples were now enveloped in an aura both besides their own and yet inspired by them. Two different souls, two different purposes, two different threats. Speed and tone were polar opposite, and yet it was the same force that ran through the pipes and soaked the studio through till it reached its very foundation. It was like a snow globe; something beyond the comprehension of all but one within these walls had gradually sunk just under the surface of the denizens' awareness.

And then Francine and Sammy unknowingly shook this power until it flew back into their faces.

Certainly, something sinister was profoundly unsettled by what they both were looking for.

The very same thing.

With each footstep of her dashing came with it a pound, slam, crack, and burst of ink. It spat in all directions, uncaring about the laws of reality. It spat at _her,_ going full force now that the curse's tampering could no longer hide plain in her sight.

It did, however, hide just behind _his_ as something across the room stole his full attention. He would never notice how the world just behind his feet became disturbed with each step closer to an innocuous object that seemed to call to him, to something deep inside he buried away.

Somewhere beyond his hearing, Francine yelped in panic as a floorboard fell from the ceiling. She jumped back, but the woman was not deterred. As soon as it finished smacking into the inexplicably overflowing river of ink, she hopped over the obstacle and continued to run despite the black that chewed her legs and tried to pull her back, tried to slow her down.

 _Where was he?! Where was he-_

Through flying oily beads against a supernaturally murky backdrop- a place that she was s _ure_ wasn't the same hallway that the demon path led out to last time- she saw him- she saw a white flash.

The demon's massive cartoon glove was undeniable as the tip of its fingers slipped to the rightmost path at a T-corner that materialized from nowhere.

And so the game began.

Francine forced herself to focus beyond the fear inside her as she desperately clung to the axe; beyond the immediate bashing and clanging of ink, wood, and the small objects caught up in their fury; and beyond even the rooms themselves as they twisted into a maze. As darkness swallowed every surface- including her own- with moving, swarming shadows, she knew it was his aura **.** She knew that the worse it got, the closer she was to the truth, and so her eyes searched past distraction to catch hints of the slimy beast.

 ** _Crash!_**

His leg sprinted past the bend.

 ** _Rip!_**

His elbow slipped between a tightening crack in the walls.

 ** _Boom!_**

His grin turned away, a brief burst of white in a room swishing with black.

No matter where he went, he left signs for her to find. It escaped all but one how deeply ironic it was that this time, the demon was the one being chased.

It was an absolute, heart-stopping horror.

Meanwhile, Sammy in a separate world was unaware of the rattling magic nipping at his heels. With each lift of the foot towards something amazing, papers upon the ground shifted- not with his touch, but with winds of upset. At first it was quiet, like a fan turned on low pointed towards the floor, but then they rose higher and higher until quiet shuffling swelled into billowing just over his head.

But he didn't notice even as invisible distress was agitated into tangibility; he was captured not by the sovereignty of the ink demon nor of the machine but merely by the way something sat in a shelf up ahead. It was a normal sight for most but…something about the way it edged just a touch beyond the untidy stacking of books…something about the way shadow fell upon it, its edge haloed with light…

It was a wordless spell that drew him in, and it was only then that someone knew that this thing ahead would show him too much if he grasped it.

This same secrecy had already found Francine, obscuring everything in sight with its dusky mistrust, its violent dread. It indeed _was_ growing violent. The further she pursued the dripping fiend into a labyrinth of someone's nightmare, the more everything seemed to- no… It _doubtlessly_ pushed back. Pipes burst overhead. Holes opened at her feet. Walls emerged where there were none before, right before her very eyes.

The demon couldn't hide his tricks from her, though. A vengeful smirk stretched across her face despite the absolute terror that simultaneously pulled it back; as she caught glimpses of his trail, she also perceived how to avoid its traps.

Just as he ducked, she did, and the thundering splash of a breaking pipe swooped barely over her head.

Just as he had sprung over a certain puddle on the floor so had she, the pool disintegrating the boards just where her feet were supposed to touch them.

Just as a barrier came in front of her, risen from another existence to block her path, she knew the slim path to the left would still let her out, just as he had turned that way and squeezed beneath a mishmash of boards nailed diagonally across the grim alleyway.

No, she had never been bold enough to call herself clever, but she certainly was resourceful with what this "god" left behind.

With every step, she grew more certain. It was less about asking what "Bendy" knew and more about the confirmation of an idea that clasped her mind and spread like a disease.

 _Joey_

 _Joey_

 _Joey_

As she scurried behind the ink demon like a thread tied to his ankle, stomping through the thundering and unholy glory he left in his wake, Francine was becoming more and more convinced she knew who Joey was.

The demon was right in front of her.

With one more dash around the corner, Francine was fast approaching a long, simple hallway. No other path in sight.

But this only one she had was completely boarded up except for one slit between the planks of wood that crisscrossed, allowing her to marvel the demon's accursed sneer simply staring and pausing in tease.

As if this would stop her.

Suddenly the object she kept uncomfortably close to her chest had a purpose, one that burned in her hands until they set rage off like a firecracker.

"You!"

A hack of the axe into one of the beams.

"STUPID!"

Another, and the plank started to splinter just in front of where she could see his face.

"SON OF A _BITCH!"_

And with that crescendo of spite, the wood broke open for her with one final swing, and she was left panting…and the demon gone from sight.

Only a loud, harsh groan before she picked her weapon back up and continued her unrelenting hunt amid a relentless universe.

She was going to get to Joey. She had to, and she _would._

And Sammy didn't consciously know it, but something was in front of him too as he stopped in front of the shelf and tilted his head up at the object that mesmerized him among all the others. At the same time, someone was only just realizing that this event, too, was something to be afraid of.

Suddenly there were not one but two people that needed to be stopped before they got any closer to what had been kept concealed for almost a century.

Francine was gasping for air by the time she saw one last door up ahead, its immensity calling to her like it was a finish line. "Bendy" glanced over his shoulder at her just as she spotted him in front if it, and he leapt through this large slit of dim light at the end of the hallway.

She realized with somehow even heavier breath that this slit was becoming thinner with every passing second.

Then two things happened at once, two directions pulling the omnipresent authority of the studio and proved that it was nearly infallible.

Nearly.

Sammy's mask faced the object peeking barely from the shelf above, his fingertip lifting to gently pull it into his life once again. Francine made the last dash towards a colossal door like that of Alice's lair that was beginning to make its opening only barely big enough for her- threatening to become even smaller as she came nearer and nearer.

As the curse of the studio needed to make two drastic actions at once to stop the entirely separate yet united forces that endangered it…it failed. Like pulling a piece of gum from end to end, this power finally could not stretch any further…

…until it snapped.

Sammy picked up what had been patiently waiting for him and Francine didn't notice the gate hesitate just a second before she dived through its slim opening.

She landed on her knees in heavy gasps, blood pounding in her ears so boisterously that her eyes were forced shut. One hand on her thigh and the other at her mouth as she coughed, Francine smiled in victory as she met the ink demon, who was merely standing in wait in front of her.

"I-…" Another brief gag before the woman's grin came back even fiercer than ever. "I _won…!"_

She rose to her feet, still leaning her palms against her own legs for support. Ink-soaked hair shifted back as she now relished the opportunity to look "Bendy" face to face.

"I found you-!"

And as she straightened her back, every last drop of confidence drained from her body. Lips trembled with words stolen from her mouth. Eyes blinked with disbelief. Shoulders shook with a tension that returned tenfold as soon as it had been released.

 _"J…Joey…-"_

As she stood in front of a gate in the middle of an ocean of ink, Francine had looked beyond the ink demon's face and some ways behind him…saw that of another.

Someone that looked as utterly terrified as she.

…Human.

With bright, ginger hair.

"You won," a soft voice admitted with awe.

"Henry won, too."


	46. Just a Man

**46- Just a Man**

" _He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him."_ – John 1:10

* * *

Do you know what it feels like to be just a man?

To be enveloped by your own pain, suffering, and longing?

To be submerged until you drown within your own doings, your own machinations, your own ignorance…your own evils?

To know that there's nothing you can do to make things right? Nothing. Not now. Not ever.

 _Forever._

And it was all so avoidable…so unnecessary…so _permanent._

If only you weren't selfish. If only you had seen. If only if you appreciated what you had, maybe you could have saved what was supposed to be.

Instead of having it end up like this.

He wasn't dead.

He wasn't the ink demon.

He wasn't even God.

But he might as well have been all these things, because that's what it is to be human- to be a lot of things. Impossible things. Beautiful things.

Terrible things, too.

Somehow existing all at once inside a single soul, paradoxes swirling in both loving play and fierce combat, somehow managing to not destroy their captor inside out with the vigor of merely _being._ A grateful imprisonment it is to be an emotion inside a human body- both a precious blessing and a curse you wouldn't trade for anything…even if you wanted to.

As the woman emerged into a cove of ink, on its shore stood a figure stiff with fear and yet shaken with amazement.

A cream suit washed with endless time still remained stained, smudges of black rotting away the tips of coattails and the bottom of pantlegs.

Underneath the brim of a hat dulled with dust and candlelight was a line of orange- ginger hair peaking just above two honey-colored eyes behind round glasses, their shades so bright in this dark, dark world that they seemed to glitter with gold.

Resting under a jaw dashed with sideburns was a bowtie of indigo, a galaxy of cloth woven around a neck that should have been iced over with the cold of death many, many years ago.

And Francine had fought to stand before this rainbow with her own, mossy green pants below a pale blue shirt, the symbol of a heart sewn over where her own was beating- where it had managed to remain beating despite everything that threatened to stop it for good…or to have her to wish that it would. A speck of her pink essence stayed on her chest for all to see, no matter how much she had endured for allowing it to remain within sight.

A man of antiques and a woman of revolution were two bold strokes of color from the paintbrush of living among the undead, a pair of contradictions that had finally found themselves side by side, crossing paths and shaping lives. Their hues were both opposite and identical in reception, each bestowing light to this aching, black world that gnawed at their hair, their clothes, and their souls.

The curse of immortality could not drain their colors away, no matter how hard it tried.

So now here they stood together at last, marveling at each other's existence and preposterous glory, both believing the other to be impossible…and yet here they were.

As Francine absorbed his presence, she could feel that it was fundamentally different- unlike anything else she had ever encountered both within these borders of ancient yellow magic and outside amid emerald transience.

He was many unfeasible things- as many people are and yet aren't- but with one look she saw…she saw that even this nameless uniqueness that lingered about him couldn't keep him from being as scared of this moment as she.

And that was when Francine knew.

That Joey was just a man.


	47. Found

**47- Found**

"… _But whoever listens to me will dwell secure and will be at ease, without dread of disaster."_ – Proverbs 1:33

* * *

On a shore of wood with waves lapping black stood not one pair of shoes but two. Her set stayed dry while facing those which opposed her, the ink washing around his soles and then pulling back, dancing and tickling immortality at his toes; it seemed to mirror something- unsteady breathing, a racing heart…and the washing in and out of these extreme emotions with each passing second.

Who knew that a peaceful conclusion could still be so utterly dreadful.

This discomfort only grew and grew until it was like the pipes were humming with the vibration of upset, of change, of destiny thrown upside down.

Finally, after basking in each other's absurd splendor, someone had to do something.

That someone was Francine, and that thing was a simple step forward.

It came at him like a tidal wave.

Almost simultaneously, the man flinched back, hand curled at his chest and its elbow thrown behind him. Francine's reaching hand pulled back the smallest fraction, surprised and unsure as she witnessed his fear, his shoulders raise up and down in heavy anxiety and complete and absolute terror wiping across his face until the expression upon it seemed to shake.

Her brow furrowed as she looked upon the being she had finally found, after fighting so hard to finally confront him one way or another.

But the shattering of a spell still breaks it nonetheless.

"Y… _you're_ Joey…!" It was such a bizarre mixture of both stating the obvious and reciting the impossible. It made her feel weightless inside, as if releasing a secret locked deep in her soul so that it could spread through the air for only two to hear and know.

Again, this gentle exhalation seemed to whip back at him. The old man blinked furiously, eyes darting back and forth, mouth gaping with neither breath nor words.

She was uttering something totally magical, and they both had very, very different understandings of what this magic could mean. It was like watching someone carefully, reverently wipe the dirt and grime off an ancient tome; he knew what she had uncovered.

And as each second passed, the man seemed to begin to grasp where he was and the fact that he was, indeed, talking to another person.

"…That I am," Mr. Drew admitted after an eternity of ponderance.

And an equally awkward, stunned huff of a laugh came from her throat. It was ridiculous how mundane this dialog was on the surface- hardly a step above "how are you?" "I am fine." And yet…

And yet such mere words were so, so much, as if their simplicity also meant purity of meaning and purpose.

It was the most human conversation possible. And that's what they were.

...Human.

So impossibly human to one another.

And that's why even though she had so much to say, so much to ask, there was one thing above all else that seemed to be a courtesy hard-earned:

"…I'm Francine."

His weary, wide-eyed gaze lingered up to meet hers, having looked desperately anywhere else up until this. And suddenly…he shifted.

Melted, even.

His shoulders fell, and hands kept anxiously to his chest began to do the same, his stance becoming less ready to run. From what? That eluded her at the moment; she was merely soaking in his very existence.

He either couldn't let go what he had to say or there was nothing that _could_ be spoken. But something about the way his bronze eyes glistened, the way he looked at her-

"Why were you hiding?"

It was so sudden that it made him jump once again, but was it really? Francine watched as the ginger's sight flickered over her, and she felt her expression steel. The shock of this reveal wasn't gone, but it was beginning to blur her journey here less and less. And now one recognition of humanity was followed with another-

The logic of all that had brought her here…or rather the lack thereof. So much had happened. Pipes broke open to flurry their contents. The floor fell apart to try to take her to God knows where. And the whole time, the ink demon seemed to be there just as a tease.

She couldn't believe that studio itself had fought just to keep her from…from just a-!

He looked so small in front of her now, so scared. Of what?

She didn't grasp that it was of her.

* * *

Now the tides were licking the heels of a table. She wasn't sure if it was there before, but that was the least of her questions. The wanderer and her hesitant host sat across from one another, the sides of his palms rested onto the surface. She blinked and the walls seemed just a bit closer; an vastly wide ballroom empty of all but a floorboard shore and an ocean of ink now seemed to move the visible sides just a bit closer to her shoulders, but maybe that was just her anxiety.

Looking forward at the top hat-wearing man made her second guess second guessing.

"…You're right my dear."

Even though Francine had been hoping he'd talk, it still made her gasp.

"My name…my name certainly is Joey Drew." Elbows now on the table, he folded his hands in front of the lower half of his face; he seemed to peer right into her soul. "…Although you figured that out on your own very well."

A honey tongue to match his honey eyes; no one could have ever guessed he hadn't talked to someone like this in decades…except for a look about him.

Yes, Francine could tell how much trepidation there was for this moment.

"I haven't heard it-" An unwilling pause as words seemed to trip in his throat. One hand became a fist and he briefly, politely coughed into it.

An old habit from when he was of a society worth being polite to, one without the loneliness of ink and never-ending life.

"-…in a long time."

He was almost embarrassed- no. That wasn't the right word.

He was…hollowed.

And just as he was finding difficulty finding words, she was finding difficulty figuring out where to begin.

She didn't know how much he knew, but she…could only guess it was very, very much. More than she. Just as she asked herself with Bendy, she wondered again- what do you ask someone who may very well know everything?

Finally, somewhere.

"How long have you been here?" A quiet question. A beginning. Just as she had begun with Sammy who knows how far back in her new past, she found her voice softening in necessity, breathlessness, and deep down…a kindness. A kindness she wished to have, so that is what she gave- hoping to receive it in return.

The look on his face made her stomach churn.

His eyelids lowered and somehow Mr. Drew in all his wretched solitude seemed even more cracked at the seams.

"…Far too long, my dear." Lips parted slightly and eyes closed, as if the weight of time was dripping like rain collecting on the brim of his hat until it fell down the middle of his face. "Far too long," he said again in a whisper, almost as if he himself needed to hear it twice to accept it.

It was now that Francine knew- or rather was reminded once again- that these people lived through far more than she could ever understand. This reality suddenly muted her- and suddenly strengthened him.

"My darling, I…I am aware there's a lot you would care to ask me." Gaze upon her again, shadow sliding across his eyes as he titled his head upward, more firm in facing her. "You don't have to-…" Yet another pause, an exhale nearly silent yet from somewhere deep, deep inside, like he was exhaling the dust from years of silence. A swallow ran down his neck in preparation for the inevitable.

"You don't have to be so gracious to this old man, Frankie." He shook his head with a begging sort of vulnerability as candlelight shined over his quivering irises. Then in the most haunted, the most aching of voices, he conceded:

"I'll tell you everything."

 _Everything._

The word echoed through her entire body until she began to shiver. It drifted above his head and gave him an aura- an emanation of something entirely otherworldly.

Truth. Truth was…paranormal to Francine now, after having chased it so long. This is what she wanted; this is what she had struggled for; and yet it was so, so unbelievable for it all to end with the woman simply sitting down with an enigma that wanted to make it all known, for it all to just fall into her lap.

She would soon learn that just as she was nearly in pain with all the revelation, so was he with having to confront it alongside her.

"This…is…"

The shadow slipped off his nose as he titled his chin up, weary as he recognized the environment of his own evils.

"This is all my fault. All of it." He waved his hand up, gesturing to the tall ceiling woven by pipes and glued with ink. "There's no one to blame but me."

Fear flashed over her face; he could see it, and although he knew he was deserving…she could see his hurt nonetheless.

"Not on purpose, of course," Joey added quickly to disrupt any racing thoughts, "…but I don't think that matters much anymore."

And his face was again hidden behind his daintily placed hands, titled slightly away to gaze past her in calm mortification. "…I can't believe I was so blind."

And for some reason, her own hand came to her face- maybe hiding herself from the dawning wave of emotions. It couldn't stop her though.

"Joey…what did you do?"

He couldn't even meet her eyes, she noticed; she began to wonder if it was because he didn't want to or because he simply couldn't.

"Someone I loved…very, very deeply- like family- left me alone. And I thought…" Eyeballs seemed to gloss with tears, but they did not yet come. "I thought I could fix it."

Silence never felt so loud as he took in another breath.

"I couldn't, and…I didn't. The-…the ritual I preformed took not just me as its prize, but…my entire studio with it." So, so hushed with his own horrors "…And everyone inside it."

Every opening of her face widened in an awful sort of awe. She had momentarily guessed that Joey had caused all this, but…that was when she thought he was _the demon._ The fact that he was only a man made it…so, so much more sickening.

And real.

The hand at her face began to shake uncontrollably, but even so, Joey decided to go on.

"And no matter how much I beg, it won't let us go." Francine saw his eyes press shut with strength far beyond necessary, as if he was trying to not to see it anymore as visions of his actions burned into his mind. He began to mutter:

"The gushing…the ink…everywhere…choking…taking…flooding…swallowing…I…I never wanted-"

His knuckles clenched.

"I never wanted this." As if he was not only trying to convince her but himself. "…But at the same time, I suppose I did."

And indeed, Francine had been scared since the moment they sat down that this world might have been the machinations of someone who actually thought that this curse was a good thing to have. Suddenly, the battle for sincerity of this universe was not external but internal. She needed to decide. She needed to pick how to feel about the man who took everything from her and everything from all of these people.

Maybe it was desperation for herself. Or maybe it was true empathy, but either way…

His fingers, unlike those of every other being trapped in the studio, felt warm in her touch.

Joey twitched in surprise, a gaze round with disbelief falling upon the young woman, and despite her own incredulity…she had unconsciously been preparing for this since the moment she entered the studio. It wasn't a handhold of comfort, but rather a plea for him to lead her to the truth.

"How did it happen?"


	48. Hiding Secrets

**48- Hiding Secrets**

" _At the same time, pray also for us, that God may open to us a door for the word, to declare the mystery of Christ, on account of which I am in prison…"_ — Colossians 4:3

* * *

Where to begin?

Is there a beginning, even? Can you date the birth of a hell that exists outside of time?

Can you even give a name to the worst thing you've ever done, that anyone could _ever_ do?

But this nameless, ageless destruction was Joey's child, and so it was his responsibility to do these things whether he wanted to or not.

And certainly, he did not want to.

Of course, this wasn't what Joey really longed for as his son. This was a forced adoption, a punishment for wanting too much and giving back too little.

A mistake he'd have an eternity to learn from but with not a sliver of a second to allow redemption.

The young man with dark hair, pale skin, and eyes that seemed to glimmer with every wonder in the world. Did it begin with this boy? No. But it was about him. Involved him. Centered him. _Attached to him._

Even though he was long gone for years to come.

When his business partner left, Joey's heart ached beyond imagination. He was so much more than a coworker; so much more than a spark in the dark, leading to hopeful futures; so much more than an aura that cast his gentle, loving hue onto a world that tried to choke color wherever it be found.

With him gone, so was his purpose. It wasn't only the studio but also the old man's life that the young animator walked out of, and so neither would be the same again.

But the final push to bring the horrors of sorrow into tangibility was by Mr. Drew's own hand.

Now, Joey always believed in magic. Not just "industry magic," "studio magic," "cartoon magic," but… _real,_ otherworldly forces beyond mortal conception that pushed and pulled human beings into the directions they were destined to coast upon, inexplicable like the flow of water within a rushing stream. This was how and why lives changed, _people_ changed…relationships changed.

But if this force could tear two people apart, couldn't it be used to bring them back together again?

…No, most would insist. We cannot change what has already been done. We cannot alter the nature of being, and so we are helpless but to drift where we were intended to go.

But surely, certainly, this was not what life intended! They were everything to each other; the world seemed purposeful, joyous, _safe._ His absence took these comforts away and left only the hollow ache of an empty life, nothing left ahead to look forward to; not even death could save him from the pains of an afterlife of knowing he could never again have what made his very soul _alive._

And so Joey knew that magic not only shaped the world but controlled its tides, and like a dam he would stop the gush of false destiny in its tracks. If humans could halt water's natural flow into place, so could he with his own river of time.

But only if he called upon that which made it move at all.

Eventually he found what he had been looking for. A solution- indeed, the only thing that made sense in a world of nonsense. It would bring him back.

Joey would bring his son- his family- _back._

But the price to be paid was for it to take everything from everyone.

* * *

"It all went wrong."

Joey stopped in his steps. As the spirit grated by lost but unending time had reached inside himself to explain unexplainable feelings and events, his feet had wandered with his mind and Francine had no choice but to abide if she wanted to follow; and so, as he rested halfway in a path of memory, she paused alongside, gazing at an expression she could never understand.

Up until now, they had traced the edge of the ocean of ink- a vast ocean that glimmered at its edges even without a sun on its horizon. It was like walking upon the beach in a movie as the protagonist allowed a sage to bestow upon them wisdom, and certainly…that's how it felt to her now.

Except that wisdom in their circumstance was the comprehension that no one could ever truly comprehend this.

"When the ritual was completed…" he finally began again, confronting the inevitable, "…my beloved studio- everything he and I had worked so hard to create and maintain- had fallen to this horrible darkness you see before us now."

Then a sigh heavy with a moment's regret stewed over decades upon decades of reflection fell from his lips, and his eyes closed shut.

Maybe to deny seeing his own curse all around them.

"…And everyone we trusted to make our dreams come true were the ones that suffered for it."

The slow close of his eyes now began to push a wrinkle into his cheeks, its forcefulness growing and growing as reminiscence soured into remorse. A face still scared with a lifetime of laughter long, long since he did so last bent as laugh lines curved with gritting teeth and a deepening frown.

"It should have been me and me alone to atone for my sin," Joey confessed with a voice hoarse as it spoke from the heart instead of the tip of his tongue, "No one else did anything wrong but me, and yet-"

Again, a fist to his mouth. But it wasn't to politely hide a cough this time. It served as a gag as the next words made him sick to his stomach in release.

"-They lost even more than I did."

And suddenly Francine- a being accustomed to the lull of attempting to comfort others who needed it, despite needing it herself- didn't know what to say, do, or think…because…because…he was _right._ Joey was a man. Every other being lost to the murk had lost not only their minds but their bodies to the swirling pools and lingering drops of ink; it was an inkwell of spirits given forevermore to the torment of their immortality and the theft of their corporeality.

Joey himself only suffered from one of those two things. He would never know what it would be like to be adrift in the sea that lapped by his side, what it would be like to fight to have a body at all- even one that hardly stayed together no matter how strong, how passionate one was.

But there was, however, something he had to accept in trade for this.

She guessed such.

As the man contemplated his wrongdoings, trying to give description to the indescribable, Francine was lost in her own thoughts as well. Her brow furrowed heavily and a hand came to her chin, the knuckle of her index finger curling just a bit more than the others underneath a mouth stretched in both discomfort and debate.

"Joey?"

Eyes forced themselves open, but the cursed cartoonist could only manage a silver of golden-brown to look upon the person that called his name, the newest soul to be trapped amidst the immortalization of his suffering.

It made her dread what further pain this question could lead to.

"No one else knows, do they?"

Another sigh and he shook his head, flecks of dust flickering in the dim light as the slight breeze of movement put them in flight.

"No."

And then…firmness. His expression shifted ever so slightly. Still resigned, still hurt, but now…the dawn of something new. Something Joey never anticipated in his entire suspended existence.

"No one except you."

The weight of this was so overwhelming it took her breath away, and yet the power of grasping the worst of fates- realizing it was her own, as well- made it so all she could do was turn her head slightly, lower her sight to the floor, and bite her lip as sobs threatened to break them apart.

But she didn't cry.

Francine had shed many, many tears since she first arrived, and each time it happened she had totally broken down and made herself feeble to the hands of the studio. She couldn't afford that now- she couldn't- and so somehow…she composed.

Her voice was needed instead to ask what needed to be asked, the air about them waiting decades for someone to do so.

"Why?"

And indeed, no one had ever been granted the privilege of knowing so much that they could question it entirely.

Joey's chin lifted and even as the muscles in his face relaxed; his eyes remained slit as he stared her down as she stood in his peripheral. There was something about him now she couldn't put her finger on, and it stirred a storm in her chest as silence swarmed the air these few seconds it took him to respond.

"…You asked me why I was hiding, my dear, when you first came."

It was still a soft, light voice, but its tone was almost accusatory. The whites of his eyes seemed to have a stroke of light all their own.

"That's far, _far_ from the truth."

As he shifted to face her, Francine noticed that not only was some ink staining his pristine cream coat; the round pair of glasses also had a black splatter painted upon them, obscuring part of that gleam that rested behind each of its sides.

"As I'm sure you've seen, the plague upon us treats every soul…differently than the others," he explained with a voice somehow confident in the unimaginable. And he was correct. Alice lost her identity, Norman lost his voice, and Sammy lost his memory. But Joey…what did _he_ lose?

"My freedom," he answered her unspoken question. "This curse took my freedom."

A strange sort of way his face steeled, almost as if looking at her was to face his fears.

"It keeps me away from everyone else. Traps me. _Confines_ me in body, mind… _heart_ …and voice."

A pause. The woman could feel her mouth slightly open in awe, because-

"Somehow, you broke in."

It was stated breathlessly, matter-of-fact, and with a sharp, undeniable tinge of disbelief.

And maybe. Just maybe- hope?

If that's what it was, it was soon washed away as another realization fell upon his face.

It was desperation.

"After all this time, Frankie…I need…" A raise and drop in his shoulders, an inhale and exhale to steady himself. "I need you to keep this… _me_ …from everyone."

…

…

Her expression said it all without a single utterance. Complete and utter flabbergast. And so Joey's expression sharpened again, knowing he'd have to put to words a horrible, horrible reality.

"I've done so much to hurt these people, my dear girl…and-…and _you."_ He was right. She was trapped too, after all; the freshness of her arrival obscured but could not erase this truth. "And this wretched power watching over us has done one thing and one thing only in their favor, and that has been to keep me from hurting them again."

He kept pressing his case. She was never supposed to know, either, but now she did. And so…he needed her compliance. It was the only way.

Lest things go even more wrong in a place already defined by the word.

"This existence is more than hard enough without knowing- without…facing…the evil that took everything away from them." The brim of his hat tilted down, shadow falling upon his face as his voice was suddenly hushed. "I am more than willing to bear the burden of loneliness to keep it that way."

Francine, to her core, felt something about this. It pulled at her, nagged at her, gnawed at her heart. But all these feelings were so raw, so intense, that Francine didn't know how to argue. Could she, even? Her nature was certain from the very moment she stepped into these ancient halls; the woman was one of connectivity, empathy, and the virtue of sincerity. To hide it all seemed…wrong.

But as she gazed upon the man that spent more years dealing with this suffering than he spent truly being alive…maybe he knew better than she-

She swallowed and tried to blink away the doubt. She had hardly been here at all; he _must_ know better than she…at least in this.

And so this feeling in her chest had to be translated into something else. If she didn't do that, it would implode her very being.

The hold of his hand when she first begged him to tell their realm's tale may not have been one of comfort, but this one was. She couldn't tell if it was for him or for herself, but maybe that didn't matter. She held all the same.

Joey gasped, and everything about his expression revealed he wanted very, very much to argue why she shouldn't be doing so. But as his now wide eyes looked for explanation…all she did was step closer to the black shore and stare at it, refusing to return his gaze.

All he could do was push away the knowledge he deserved nothing from her as she forced him to accept this kindness.

And so for just a moment, the two stood hand in hand as they faced the endless tides of black magic and altered destinies, the shadow of the demon looming just behind their ankles.


	49. Speak

**49- Speak**

 _"_ _For since I came to Pharaoh to speak in thy name, he hath done evil to this people; neither hast thou delivered thy people at all."_ – Exodus 5:23

* * *

There was one thing Joey said that would haunt her forever. More than knowing he was alive. More than knowing that he was the one that did this to them- to her. More than knowing that he couldn't fix it no matter how hard he tried…and that he'd been trying for almost a century.

"Has anyone ever…been able to leave?"

After an eternity of silence standing along the shores of ink- the quiet, vast puddle of spirits lost to the ink machine- Francine had finally spoke. His hand still in hers, she blinked and turned her head to look at the founder of purgatory.

And she could feel him tremble slightly, uncontrollably, limp in her grasp.

And he couldn't make himself look back at her.

…Either that or Joey was putting all his concentration into assuring he would not.

Francine saw his free palm come to hold the brim of his hat, fingers clasping it, and the ginger old man let its shade fall over his eyes.

She could still spot a gleam from this shadow that masked him, the glistening ink upon two circles of glass.

"No."

And it was almost indescribable how much a single word said and felt to their ears. Unbelievable the drop in her chest, the loss of something inside her she couldn't name.

"But that doesn't mean we still can't hope, dear…!"

And a grimace of a smile had forced its way up his lightly wrinkled face. He still wouldn't look, but his voice, unlike before, allowed a bit of the optimism he used to embody to return…if only as an impossible dream to keep them from plummeting into despair for who knows how long to come.

"There will always be a reason to, you know. Otherwise…" A meaningful pause drifted the air. "…I don't think you'd ever be here."

Was it genuine hope, or just an attempt to console a woman who now knew that which had taken everything from her? She couldn't discern, and so Francine was left only to stare; the lull of a gentle, half-lidded expression that washed over her face still wasn't enough to pull Joey's gaze back in.

And he slowly but abruptly shifted his feet to turn around so the tides barely lapped at his heels instead of his toes. His hand slipped out of hers to do so and Francine, even in the exhaustion of revelation, managed to follow suit to gaze upon-

"The ink demon…" As Joey addressed the beast that watched over them, the dark being remained silent. Even his watercolor aura- the stains of grey that swirled around him like he was a drop of paint in a room full of water- had constricted. He did not drip. **He merely watched.**

And as Francine finally pried her eyes away to look at the man that had summoned agony incarnate, she saw that he was watching the demon back.

The tip of his brim lifted alongside an upturn of his chin, the artist of short stature looking up to this hellish cartoon. His eyes now unobscured, she witnessed them narrow again- a piercing gaze at that which imitated his most beloved creation…but certainly was not what his pen had intended.

The woman once again was at a loss to identify this emotion about Joey this moment, and nor could she distinguish how it made her feel to see it. All the same, Joey finally whispered; it was a wisp from his tongue somehow still rough passion…or spite. Like an autumn's wind, it was both light and bitter all at once.

"Someday, he will set us free."

Maybe Francine had a god after all.

* * *

The end of an adventure, the beginning of new dread. A rushed decision to chase Bendy for answers had brought her to a man that gave them at the costly price of being sworn to secrecy. As Francine walked her way back to the apartment- an anticlimactic return- she became more and more burdened with discomfort and hollowed hopes. For some reason all this had felt so…empty. She _knew_ now but-…but…

She stopped mid-step in an ordinary studio hallway- or well, as ordinary as it could be here- folding her arms and frowning at the floor beneath her feet.

Knowing wasn't so great after all, huh?

And now as shock started to fade, she began to wonder why she reacted as she did. Speaking gently, holding his hand, allowing him to lament rather than take up the conversation with her rightful complaints…with a rightful fury.

As well as she had kept it at bay, she _was_ deeply upset. Who wouldn't be facing that which took her whole life away, that took away the lives of at least three other human beings long, long ago?

But somehow, she was again the one to bestow mercy. Maybe that was her own curse here; her newness to this gave her the strength, the gall to force others to stare in the face their own wretched pasts and fates…in hopes that maybe doing so would make their lives a little better- existing a little easier.

Yet they could not offer her the same.

No- no. That was off topic. She can't dodge this question. Why had she been so gracious to Joey? It was bothering her now; he had selfishly dragged them all down with him, so it wasn't like she was entitled to give him anything. So…why?

Maybe she had been too tired to be angry. Maybe she had been too exhausted to bother with a grudge…at least for now. Maybe deep in the depths of limbo, it was pointless to waste timeless time doing anything but trying to heal- a lesson to be learned from falling between the tormenting dynamic of the prophet and the angel.

Regardless, something inside her had begged that instead of shout, she listen to the answers she had demanded. And as she did, there came a thought-…

To imagine… _never_ speaking to someone ever again, as Joey was destined to do?

Francine wasn't sure yet if she should be grateful she had blessed him with the simplest of joys- someone to listen to you. She herself had to admit she couldn't survive a day without that, suddenly mulling over the way Mr. Drew's honey eyes softened as he looked at her in all her delicate mortality; she felt that maybe…maybe…he really was sorry.

And maybe, since there was nothing more he could do but to ensure he would never hurt anyone again, that was enough.

But it wasn't that simple-

And just as she had begun to confront what was inside her, she was reminded all too soon that there were things outside that would question her, too.

Francine and Sammy had wandered back into each other's' lives without intent- without a knowing purpose- and neither were aware how much the other had discovered in their absence.

How much each now needed to keep secret.

Faint, simultaneous gasps and raised heads to gawk upon one another, an unconscious connection between two people that had been utterly changed inside out since they met last.

The disciples stood across from each other, feeling the consequences of separation and reunion. Chests already heavy were filled with another sensation-

The raw awkwardness of having to forgive hurt feelings.

"I-"

They both had begun to talk at once and so their voices abruptly canceled each other out, neither wanting to speak over the other. Both Sammy and Francine retracted just a little from where they stood, flinching back as if mere interruption was a deadly sin. Indeed, they had been separated by their own outrage, but time apart had prepared them to be glued back together; the wisdom bestowed upon them gave plenty of reason to think less of a momentary disagreement within a possible eternity to spend together.

After the man that shined with oil opened his inky lips in surprise, Francine could see barely through the broken hole of his mask that his expression had begun to lax; a sigh in that smooth voice of his filled the gap between them, and it called to her heart before anything he would say after.

"Francine, I-"

And while he had spoken first, she was the first to act. Francine suddenly ran across the distance between them to throw her arms around his sides and bury her face in his chest, uncaring about the ink that inevitably stained her clothes, hair, and skin with his touch. Her whole life was ink now anyway. Who would give a shit if just a bit more got on her shirt again?

Not that she even thought about that just yet. Right now, her mind was preoccupied by an ache seeping to her very core that maybe couldn't be gotten rid of until the day she died…but it still beseeched for this nonetheless.

For a friend.

There was a hesitation she didn't notice. As the woman of flesh and blood threw herself at a man made from liquid gloom, the latter was caught midsentence and his mind seemed to freeze alongside his tongue. A lot of things…a lot of things this gesture meant, felt, and reminded him of. Arms strapped to his sides by her hold, Sammy's fingers parted with tension as he looked down at the top of her head. She sensed his stare but did not look back.

Maybe that's how Joey felt when he couldn't either, she guessed.

And as the mundane of abnormal living took the disciples back, offering rest for two souls weary with revelation and secrecy, it eventually allowed them to find at least a moment of peace in each other's arms. Francine wasn't sure if she would ever care again how cold his touch was. The way her heart swelled as he finally gently, cautiously patted her head with his hand more than made up for it.

And maybe it was making him warm inside too as her round, pudgy shape stood next to him, despite the weight of something in his pocket reminding him that he used to have a real body with which to return a hug.

* * *

A blink and he was alone once again, just as he had belonged.

 _Just as he had belonged._

Joey Drew's mouth stretched side to side with a downward curl, its pull opening a sliver of his mouth to part in disbelief. His fists clenched so hard that they shook.

And as he quivered with incense and fear, so it seemed that the ocean did so in tandem as it laid behind him; flat, pooling ink was agitated with an unknown power and slowly- starting from the blurry horizon and then dominoing its way to the shore- waves began to rise and fall.

 _Unsettled._

"Ink demon…" Joey uttered the monster's title once again, that **thing** still standing ahead. Wordless. Actionless.

Just here to watch him _suffer._

And as the creator glared back, trying to burn every second of misery right back to that which had inflicted it upon him, Joey's voice was very, very different from when the naïve young woman was here, again addressing the warden of his studio's self-destruction.

"…Why did you bring her to me?"

He begged this of Bendy, mixing both demanding and helpless pleading into a brew of complete and utter indignation…despite knowing the creature would never tell him. But it was such a taboo- such a betrayal- that he still had to ask.

Because he was afraid. Afraid of her, for her, of himself, for himself, and of the ink demon.

 _Afraid of the consequences._

Unknown to everyone including himself, something was always ready to crack within Joey's fragile soul. It had been back when Henry had left and again when he came, and it remained up until Francine reminded the childless father what he had lost forever and ever.

 _Crack. Crack. Crack._

And all the demon could do was smile as it did.


	50. Contradictions

**50- Contradictions**

" _For God is not unjust so as to overlook your work and the love that you have shown for his name in serving the saints, as you still do."_ \- Hebrews 6:10

* * *

"Did you…" Sammy had to swallow back the words he wanted to say instead. "…find what you were looking for?"

Francine's bag sat on the floor of the music hall's entryway, a quiet, knowing eavesdropper upon the awkward silence and conversation between two people with more to hide than they had ever asked for. And certainly, what each now possessed was more than they had ever wanted to know.

But they themselves had begged for this; the disciples wanted answers to their prayers and sought for them in impatience, and separate but parallel journeys had instead provided more doubts to ponder as they awaited salvation.

Sammy didn't want to know what Francine found- if she found anything at all. The time he spent alone was making his mind dizzy with revelation, his stomach churn with the frustration of puzzle pieces that wouldn't snap together and make themselves clear to hopeful, hungry eyes.

He let the back of his head tilt until it touched the wall they both sat beside, spines resting at the bottom of a sign bearing his own profession and name in a hall scarred black with the lurking of searchers. The way dread gripped his heart and seemed to try to twist it out of him made him guess that yet another additional piece would lead to yet more agony. But he had to ask. If she was to care for him in mortality once all of this was done, he was to return the favor in the immortality that preceded it now. And to care?

Sometimes to care means to do things that you would rather not do.

And as much as questioning the ink demon scared him, he didn't want her to feel alone in doing so.

…As if he wasn't questioning, himself.

And the ball was passed to a woman who was just as unwilling to share as Sammy was to discover. Yet she too welcomed this great discomfort; they both did so out of politeness, compassion, and fear. But while Francine opened the door to the home of her heart, she would- could not- not let Sammy in.

"…I…"

How was she to say this? How would she put everything she had experienced, everything she now understood and yet couldn't grasp at all? And in the back of her mind, a tortured man's plea had reached forward to remind her of a promise:

" _I need you to keep this…_ me _…from everyone."_

She didn't like secrets. Never did. They made their heart heavy and made it hard to look people in the eye. Francine only ever kept them if someone else told her to, and if it was for a good reason.

Reluctantly, she convinced herself that this was a pretty damn good reason.

Joey seemed to recognize his evils and didn't fight back the curse of eternal loneliness- and perhaps, never tried. It almost seemed…noble to her. It didn't sit right somehow, but again- she was a soul that could only find peace in connectivity. And so the fact that the father of their hell locked himself maybe even deeper away into it than everyone else just to prevent any more damage than what was already done?

That was something beyond her fathoming, and so she reconciled the idea of such a horrid fate by assuming it to be a kindness. A kindness that was her duty to maintain- the least she could do to help hurt beings lost to time hate it just a little less.

And so, she swallowed her pride.

"No," she muttered quietly. And as she said it, she justified her lie by remembering this wasn't entirely untrue. Certainly it was an omission, yes, but she…-

Francine stared down at her hands as they rested upon a fold of her stomach, Sammy's own pair only inches away holding his knees.

-…She didn't find what she had really sought for, what made her leave the safety of his attendance; she got something else instead- something that fell weightily upon her heart as she was finally by her friend's side.

But sometimes to be kind, you must be uncomfortable.

And so they both sat alongside in an uneasy, hollow, and yet benevolent silence; it was reminiscent of two kids sitting in the school hallway after being sent there for being too rowdy fighting each other, and now they had to think of the consequences of their actions upon their friendship. This is why Sammy forced himself to embrace words he didn't want to hear and why Francine kept Joey's dark truths to herself.

Because both of them thought that doing what would be best for their own soul would be unforgivably selfish; they couldn't abandon the one they cared about most when they knew all too well that they didn't seem to have another in this place that'd ever be by their side.

"…Ah." An equally hushed reply, response slowed with the drag of needing to analyze what he said and heard rather than let the conversation flow naturally. Sammy didn't believe her, of course- not because he had an inkling of an idea the absolute madness the woman had gone through; it was because to discover was…her way. As his tilted gaze soaked in Francine's return, he saw that she was much more stained than when she had left- splatters of the studio's blood fallen upon her at angles and directions more like mud thrown in a rainstorm than simply slipping into a puddle. And so whatever she had weathered, he could tell it was more than she let on; he could see it in her eyes.

And yet it somehow didn't occur to him that this meant that she was keeping a secret. How bizarre.

But of course, she couldn't have had any idea he was doing the same…that is, until-

"What's that?"

Her head gently tossed itself to her left shoulder as she noticed a slight, smooth glisten from the candlelight hitting something in his right pocket. In reply, Sammy was silent, and his body language seemed to convey he had been caught by surprise, and so she pointed down at this odd texture by his waist to elaborate.

He felt his chest seize up. He couldn't tell her what this meant- he wouldn't, he promised himself- and yet it made him anxious for her to know it existed at all.

…Even as he didn't know what it was himself; the object that granted him wisdom was overflowing with meaning and yet blank of purpose.

A pair of glasses was pulled from the confines of his pocket, Sammy gingerly lifting it into the air between she and him, allowing them both to gaze upon its wire folds and broken lenses.

"I don't know," he lied and yet admitted much as Francine had done herself. Undeniably, Sammy knew- Sammy knew that once it had sat upon someone's face before the studio's downfall and death, but he couldn't for the life of him remember what on earth this was _for._

"Oh _, Sammy…-!"_

His heart began to rise in that brief second, she seemed more herself again, a slight bubble of laughter in her voice as she prepared to teach him of something common knowledge from where both she and him used to reside.

It was short lived for such a strange and glorious reason.

Her chin lifted, and her pupils fluttered all around the room once a familiar grey began to swim onto the walls, coasting its way into the reunited friends' conversation. While Francine herself was surprised, her shock was much calmer than that of Sammy, a gasp flying from his oily lips and shoulders beginning to rise and fall with the unease of recognition.

From the very staircase that Sammy had seen in his memories swell and overflow with the ink that drowned the rest of his life forevermore, their god had emerged, standing in the entryway of his prophet's haven.

He stood taller than ever with both of his disciples already upon the ground in communion.

The two could only stare at their dark lord as he graced them with his presence, unsure what his coming meant and what **he** intended to do here.

"My-my-…my lord…!" Sammy addressed him meekly, unsure of what else he could do, and the object he had found was mindlessly set upon his lap as his hand fell in awe.

Like every corner of the room was a shore, the demon allowed his swirling spirit to trace the walls and fall just short of his believers' feet.

It took the longest second in the world to realize he was simply there in wait.

No, he didn't move from that spot, and doubtlessly that eyeless, piercing regard was for the two seated upon the floor. And suddenly- Francine felt something shift in her mind. As that unmoving smile curved over the demon's dripping face, he seemed…gentle somehow. Certainly, his aura about him now was much less violent than when he- when he-…

Unseen by Sammy, her eyes shot wide as something finally clicked into place. She remembered the way he was always somehow within sight when she had pursued him through a quickly decaying studio; the way she could always see where he was or where he went off to, what direction to go and how to avoid the traps that lied in wait. And she swore- she could _swear_ now- that she had seen the beast look back at her and hesitate the smallest moment before jumping out of sight through the last door.

In her chase of the demon, it never occurred to her that he wasn't running away.

 _He had been_ _ **leading her.**_

And just as this veracity broke into her consciousness, her heart began to pound at the same time her expression began to soften. She still didn't understand the ink demon, and maybe she never would- but this? This meant something. It had to. And so…she hesitantly allowed herself to feel unexpected reassurance in the company of the being that terrified her the most.

Because she now saw that sometimes to help, it means to deceive.

Maybe the ink demon could sense this apprehension- this new perspective that had begun to seed and root within her psyche. Maybe it's what he had come for, because just as mild acceptance started to shape her face into a different sort of gaze, the tall creature of liquid shadows shifted his stare and merely walked away, rounding the next corner until both his physical body and the splatters of his soul upon each surface drifted out of sight.

No, Bendy had not come for anything- did not expect anything of his followers during this encounter; it wasn't in wait he had arrived…

…But in **watch.**

And as Francine felt her heart begin to be pulled in one direction for the demon, Sammy was almost sick feeling his lean the opposite way, knowing what he did now leaving his faith in more peril than ever.


	51. Mask

**51- Mask**

" _For we walk by faith, not by sight."_ – 2 Corinthians 5:7

* * *

Mindless wandering often ironically means someone is in deeper thought than you could ever guess. So it was now. Sometime after Bendy left them be, one of the two disciples had finally felt that they c _ouldn't_ just be- at least as they were- so they then decided to be somewhere else. The other followed suit, lulled by the draw of companionship and reflection. Which was the first to get up? Neither could recall, and so it didn't matter.

Both were immersed in emotions and reminiscence nonetheless. It was all they could do after being confronted with something just on the cusp of their understanding- just within sight but not within a grasp that wouldn't leave them tumbling off the edge entirely.

Sammy's chin lifted, memories and feelings of one kind drifting into those of another as familiarity overwhelmed his senses just enough to snap him back to the present.

The last time he had reached the end of the hallway of his- he still couldn't believe it, _his_ \- old office was so shortly after the woman had first arrived. Back when he had abandoned her to sort out his reeling mind-

Having stopped unconsciously, Francine had done so as well and was now looking up at him in gentle, unquestioning but still curious wait.

-…All this they experienced together since had led him to promise he wouldn't do so again not just once but twice, only for him to break it as many times.

All he could do with her unearned trust was to sigh and turn his head back forward, taking in the view of the piling ink that entrapped the glass room that bore his name, where he had first kept her "safe" from the rest of this eternal abyss.

He still didn't notice the glass was more broken than when he saw it before.

Although Francine didn't grasp his ways this moment- or well, ever- she still accepted it, and so the woman leaned against her side of the hallway with folded arms and one foot crossed behind the other as he observed his fragmented past. Shoulders rose and fell with a sigh of her own as she recognized this place too, but a small glimmer at his side reminded her of a conversation that had almost drifted away.

Sammy almost didn't perceive it as she slightly unfolded one arm, using it to point at the nearly forgotten pair of glasses.

"Really don't know what those are, huh?" she asked not mockingly but with genuineness- consideration for the man who could distinguish little from the outside world. And as he merely nodded, she began to wonder why she was so perplexed that he didn't. Must have been because whenever he was from must have had glasses, but _doubtlessly_ they had shirts, too, and he said before that he hadn't seen those in God knows how long. The repetition of endless eternity without certain objects must have done a good number erasing knowledge they existed, she surmised.

Again, trying to push back that this was the spell in which she now lived.

…Although Sammy's mental walls built brick by brick by the swamping of ink didn't help either. When would he tell her that a few of the blocks had fallen out, allowing him to barely peer into a sliver of something beyond his comprehension?

Maybe never. As much as his lord's inexplicable behavior had shaken him- his entire perspective of his existence and purpose- he still clung to one thing that her last encounter with the angel made him believe.

That maybe they weren't supposed to know, lest the path to salvation was clouded.

It certainly didn't feel right to know what little he did.

It was so, so strange and uncomfortable for beliefs and disbeliefs to mix together in his chest, both contradicting and coinciding until it drove Sammy to do and think things that felt like they creeped onto his shoulders and slid down his arms with the ink that swallowed his body. The man would have been grateful to know that this was one of the most human experiences someone could ever have, but none could console what he would not reveal.

And so the disciples were content to speak of objects rather than meanings.

"Those help you see if your natural sight's not so good," Francine put plainly as Sammy retrieved the broken accessory once again from his pocket. It was both a polite and a confused silence she gave as the man too now leaned against the wall, shoulders and back touching the boards behind him and legs stretched forward towards her. Between his fingers the glasses were held in front of him, the little cracks in the delicate lenses putting thin lines over his tilting mask.

"I see," was his accidental pun, hummed smoothly. And for some reason this made Francine feel…better. She had dreaded meeting up with him again- not because she hated him for what he had said but because of the unspoken nature of their separation; she never liked leaving an argument angry like they both had back then. To hear that chime in his voice as she introduced him to something both old and new from the outside was a comfort to her weary soul.

But as all comforts of this world seemed to be, it was dashed just as quickly.

"It's like my mask, then."

…

…

…

"What," she said flatly.

"My mask," the inky prophet replied, his scratched, wooden stare more poignant than ever, "It helps me see." He put it so casually, so simply; it was neither a confession nor a revelation, but simply a fact. Tone alone wasn't what threw her off though.

Francine felt her cheeks push her eyes into more of a squint as her brow furrowed in total perplexity. There was literally nothing about what he just said that made sense. The worn and torn visage of Bendy looked her back as she finally reexperienced one of the first details about him that had troubled her- and evidently it was also one of the first she had managed to ignore for the sake of her sanity. What was hidden in plain sight was so abruptly overwhelming that what she asked next wasn't even the right question to; it went straight over the idea that flat, broken piece of a cutout "helped" him see and flew right at the impossibility that it a _llowed_ him to see at all.

"I…don't think there's any holes in the eyes." She laughed saying it with a head shaking a silent "no" from side to side, she was so incredulous. Somehow entirely confident in a universe that proved time and time again that nonsense was entirely what these inky truths were made of.

Ignoring that these truths were now her own whether she realized it or not.

"That's correct," Sammy answered unwittingly bluntly.

"So…" The woman shrugged into her lean, shoulders falling closer to her ears as she stretched her neck towards him in utter disbelief, as if looking closer did something to remedy it. But no; she was right and he was right to confirm it- no hole was in his mask besides the one that sometimes barely revealed his mouth.

One corner of her mouth tugged further to the side until her mouth was open and clearly gaping. It was only going to get wider and longer with the stretch of amazement.

"…How do you see with it on?!" Francine finally managed to conclude, a pause necessary to process what she even just said.

It was not going to help in the least.

As if that somehow was as simple as it could be put- as much of an explanation as he could give- all he did was tilt his masked head once again and say:

"I can't see without it."

The pair of glasses fell back to his side along with a relaxing arm, and now she was face to face with something that served as more than only a second smile. It was both an ever-present reminder of his god's grace and his fervor as well as something more- something that carried him through each and every day-

Wait. No. What the _fuck?_ There's no way. _There's no fucking way-_

But all Francine could do was swing her head side to side one more time with wide eyes and a voice so taken with shock that it barely escaped her lips.

"…I can't tell if you're being poetic or not," the mere mortal admitted with hardly a squeak.

He was not.


	52. The Second Face of a Blind Prophet

**52- The Second Face of a Blind Prophet**

" _As we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal."_ – 2 Corinthians 4:18

* * *

There's a certain given level of unpleasant intimacy when you make yourself vulnerable to a friend- a certain breathlessness. It's scary. It's new; even if you've done it a thousand times before, revealing something about yourself will never find its sting in wane. This is because the unraveling of the mystery of a human being isn't too far from a cut in the skin; it's a fresh opening, time and time again, and if it's in the same spot more than once than it will eventually begin to scar, to callous. Only then can it numb- that is, if it doesn't simply hurt more instead.

Now it was true that it was merely a fact to Sammy that he could only see through the image of his lord. It was also true that it was so ingrained into his life of devotion that he had thought nothing of it- to the point that it was just as unremarkable to mention it as it was incredible for Francine to hear. So this was not his vulnerability.

Then what made him feel so?

What was it then, that made the space between his shoulder blades tingle with unease, his heart's pulse run up and down his neck with the flight of anxiety?

As he and his rediscovered companion stepped into the band room yet again, he let her go in first. Unexpectedly, he noticed this discomfort crawl into his chest, and as the door fell behind him, so did his arm fall to grip the other; slight dints of pressure appeared under his fingertips into the soma just above his elbow. He walked in a slump, head craned forward and down- the thin painting of Bendy looking into the room where tones of worship reigned supreme.

Sammy felt it staring. It always did, and most of the time it was…comforting. An assurance that he was always cared for, never alone. But today as the cutout in the viewing window looked down upon its believers, what was always assumed to be a loving gaze now pierced instead of cradled his soul.

To say he no longer had faith was incorrect. To say that the ink demon could not be his savior was incorrect.

And it was the same if he had said he knew how to feel about these things.

It made Sammy lower his mask and look inward at the woman who sat herself upon the stage and picked up her- or rather his- instrument of choice, assuming that another violin lesson was what they had come for.

That is, until she observed that he didn't come any closer.

…Well, it wasn't like she was going to be able to pay attention anyways. Not after what he had just said.

Her eyes became half-lidded and the expression upon her face scrunched with thought. She noticed the way his head fell almost somberly down from its look to the devil's visage.

And so the recent revelation of his mask and the past upset about her chasing after the demon finally blended, and Francine thought she understood why Sammy's mood was so low.

Emphasis on "thought."

Still in her seat, she set the violin down onto the chair beside her, folding her hands upon her lap and steadying her gaze towards the fellow disciple as she searched for words.

"You…really can't see without it?" Spoken hesitantly, mildly; as perplexed as she was, she had slid into a care that shaped what she chose to say. Francine had admitted to herself that she _knew_ there was a conversation they needed to have but had no direction for her to find it on her own, and so he let him choose the path with however he would respond.

Again, a casual shake of his head. And then silence. He still only stood.

"How long has it been like that…?" Francine wasn't sure if she really wanted to know.

It was somehow unfortunate she still would not as Sammy gave a subdued, hollowed, "I don't know."

Unbeknownst to her, something had clutched his heart. As he opposed her with his mask and felt the same face burn into the back of his head from above, he had begun to identify it.

What he found filled with him with dread. It wasn't the mask that bothered him…

It was what lied beneath it.

His frown deepened and opened slightly; his slouch grew tighter as he made himself smaller.

 _Disgusting._

 _Appalling._

 _Unworthy to live._

… _Unworthy to die._

"Hey."

A soft breath of a noise drifted from his throat, and the darkness that occasionally choked his sight and mind faded away to take him another day. She was here to push it back just a little bit longer.

Her hushed voice made Sammy flinch, shoulders raised and one hand moving closer to his chest. But oddly, she hadn't interrupted him to speak; she was only staring. Why was she only staring?

And then the prophet saw in her eyes- a sort of…sharpness. Not a pinning one like that of his lord and what was made in his image. Somehow her mortal eyes gleamed with…worry. With kindness.

To remind him that she was here, and so was he.

That was all it took for a wall to break down that he had neglected to repair for a very, very long time.

"I…must confess." He shifted, and it shifted something inside her; tenderness wasn't…his strong suit- neither for her nor for himself.

And suddenly…he was entranced. A spell was cast into the air, and it drew him closer and closer. The face that blessed him with sight loomed ever nearer, and with it never leaving her own face as the focal point, it lowered as Sammy began to kneel in front of her- not all the way, but enough for him to be just short of lining those monochromatic, flat eyes with her round ones.

There was a time before when he did something like this- when she was suffering from the revelation it wasn't only she and him that were trapped here, and all he could do then was let his mask's gaze allow her to see his faith; he never took it off, in hopes that seeing through the eyes of his god may make clear the road to release.

Now as the chipped paint presented itself to Francine, it carried a vastly different meaning.

And indeed, it was justified.

"I haven't…" And he had to decide. He already had before unconsciously to even begin this sentence, but it was so weighty with these things inside of him that it was worth second guessing. And so as she gaped at him, so was he at her; the flecks of brown that lined her jaw…the slight tremble in her lips with the force of them pursing…a strand of hair astray from the rest, falling in next to an eye with a shine splattered over a glittering iris-

And then he was sure, because to see her was to see what was eating him away- always had, and always would.

"…Ever been able to see without it." As much as this shocked her- melted her even- Sammy knew and Francine could assume this was half a truth. But for now, they ignored the fact that there was once a time that Bendy didn't consume every corner of his sight.

There were more things to think about than that.

And finally, the woman realized he wasn't looking at her but at the details of mortality. They had always radiated like beams of glory from above; it was why the projectionist clasped her cheeks, why the angel stroked her hand, and why the prophet pondered every touch she gave and allowed. Because she was something they wanted.

Feared they never would have again.

The very idea left her breathless, but maybe it should have all along…since she did that very thing to them by merely existing.

And he wasn't even done. That wasn't even what he had so bravely come forward to say.

"I've never seen my face without it."

No, the woman would never understand what it was like to be taken by the ink. Not at all.

Having nothing she could ever say to that, Sammy had no choice but to continue.

"In the mirror-…" He shuddered. His slimy, drippy, mucus-like body didn't even need to be in his view again for it to make him sick. "-I can only ever see this…cursed, wretched body, and these black-greased lips behind the slit of these teeth."

One hand came up to the part of his mask to which he referred, and those same lips rolled together as he contemplated something that threatened to make him feel even more horrible than what he just described.

"I've…never seen my own face."

A man could never be more troubled.

And a woman could never be more speechless.

Of course her eyes trembled in their sockets, and of course his skin started to drip again. Such is how the body releases what the soul can't contain.

But sometimes there's something stronger that causes the heart to move the body against the will of the mind.

Sammy now had not one hand at his mask but two, and- what? What were they doing?

And then the mask came off.

Strings of black stretched across the growing space between the wood at the syrupy black it glued itself to, stretching until the lines caved in the middle and either fell back onto his ink or joined that of the floorboards. Shining pearls of wet shadows dribbled over his fingers, tracing knuckles of the same shade until they collected upon his forearms, invisible among the rest of him.

Finally, finally…after all this time…his façade lowered before her and Sammy allowed someone with all he wished for to judge he who had none.

And a weary, wary smile began to grow as it finally had a complete face to match, appearing only as absolute anxiety left nothing else to do.

Her own hand came to her mouth, gaze wide as she studied him with disbelief. He couldn't see- just as he promised- but he somehow could still sense this change, and so the curve of his lips slowly but surely faded, unsure what to make of this change in her aura.

…And likewise, she now could witness Sammy too express feelings and intentions without a single word.

The eternity of a few seconds it took for her to speak made his chest feel both empty and so impossibly heavy, something between a sigh and a grunt involuntarily uttered as he began to panic.

"Oh Sammy…"

It was all she could say.

Even without eyes, he was somehow so…so remarkably human. An oily head with only a mouth and indents for expression still conveyed something so delicate, so subtly tender as he made one of his worst secrets exposed, dreading a future with its release but somehow still knowing it should be done. She was helpless to how this made her feel- to experience the very same emotions etched with and onto the ink looking back.

Mesmerized, there was nothing left to do but to lose herself to the whims of humanity.

A faceless face literally melted in her into her fingers as one hand shakily rose to first touch his cheek- testing if what she saw was real- before holding it. At her caress, the slight dents where eyes should have been almost seemed to widen, and a bead of liquid clung between his lips as they parted to inaudibly gasp.

"I…" Francine paused, tilting her head in amazement. "I don't know how to begin to explain this…"

God only knows what that could mean, and so he was sick with both trepidation and…something else. He couldn't name it and it still scared him, but it wasn't something he wanted to deny. Who could say what kind of disgust, what kind of hatred for what he was now rested just inches before him? And yet he still anticipated it.

A gulp moved down his throat, trying to swallow the dismay.

"Sometimes, when things aren't what we want them to be, what we still have is…blessed."

It was an abrupt thing to say amid all this raw, unearthing pain. Now, Sammy had removed his lens of faith as a confession- a maybe needless admission that somehow felt right and necessary to do as the nature of the soul often begged of their owners. This was all he intended; he wanted to make himself bare to her scrutiny, his horrors visible to her conscious. Heaven knows why, but it was still all he could do and all that had to be done.

But he didn't need to say what he was really asking her to do for him when it was written all over his face.

Sammy wanted to know what he looked like. Who wouldn't?

Certainly, she'd want the same.

"Your face is…different than before, I think." It was only politeness that kept her from saying it was for sure. "You don't…really have a nose; and there's just-…some small inward bumps where your eyes are supposed to be."

His chin turned further up in astonishment as she went down the list of his appearance, the side of his jaw shedding some black onto her palm as it did.

"But!"

And both she and him recognized his flinch with the sudden chirp in her tone. Then he heard something that he must have been mistaken about. It was _impossible._

Sammy heard her laugh.

"Like that! Just like that!" Another of that incredible sound. "That's amazing!"

Amazing?

"Somehow you're still so…" And something in the air seemed to hush absolutely everything. "…Human."

Sammy's shoulders rolled back and his neck tilted backwards in complete and utter awe.

Human.

He looked…human.

No cartoon eyes…no pointed horns…

 _Human._

"You're wonderful, Sammy."

And then there was the first true, audible gasp. He was gaping, his mouth silently moving to shape that adjective over his tongue- the last thing he thought she'd ever say- a word he believed he may never hear as long as he lived. But then-

Suspicion.

…Only one way to find out.

"You're lying."

Again, he could not perceive it visually, but an unnamable sense knew the rest of her body had retreated along with that touch upon his cheek. A soft thump; the woman had put her hand to her heart.

"N-no! I-…I…"

Silence.

"…Listen, Sammy." He felt her fingers return, lightly and cautiously grazing one of his shoulders.

"I'm sure this isn't who you were before." Oh, how brief it was to try to avoid the glaringly obvious. "I know you know that. I'm not…going to make you believe you're something that you're not."

A pause, one that was intended to give her breath but had failed; it only filled her lungs with more words she wasn't sure should be said.

"Even though you're-" She had to fight for a second to even find a descriptor. "-liquidy. You're inky like this…"

She didn't dare to add that all this was only remnants of who he used to be. In that veracity's place, her fingers squeezed.

"You're still- somehow-… _you."_

But maybe no matter how tender she could be, no matter how much she tried to convey what she _knew_ without a doubt just by seeing him-

"…I don't understand."

"That's the hard part to explain."

Yet another stretch of quiet. Sammy felt his brow furrow until the pressure on one shoulder was abruptly matched upon his other. A mutter. Barely audible.

"Maybe this is a good way to start."

And soon would come the longest moment of his life.

"Wonderful," she stated firmly.

Ink in the dents shifted as sharply as her voice, conveying almost…moving his gaze around in confusion. The man's upper lip lifted, baring more teeth. It stretched in a frown and created bumps- dimples- that pushed the oily flesh of his cheeks toward the pair of shallow holes.

"Do you feel that?" It wasn't a whisper, but it was still like a wisp of wind, like she had to be quiet for him to identify what she already did. "Your face. _That's your face."_

The look upon him became more extreme. "I…?" And then- he felt it. He felt his face _move._ It did so to express without his permission- on its own- involuntarily.

A small "hm" chimed in the air somewhere near and ahead.

"The look on your face tells me you get it now."

Then suddenly but oh so lingeringly slow, the grasp upon him shifted from fingers to palms and led down and around his back; Francine pulled herself into him.

"I'm so proud of you for staying human."

And then again that unbearable sting. Embarrassment. Helplessness. _Vulnerability._ His stomach turned upside down.

She was holding him, he realized. And there was a reason that when she had done so recently before that he did not hold her back.

He noticed his heart race as he realized where she was. She must have been able to _hear it._ And he was mortified. In turn, she didn't _say_ so…but the perception of a slight upward movement at his chest said it all. She was smiling.

Of course he had to do something, even if everything this cursed life had taught him cried that this wasn't right.

His arms lifted right ahead, but they were careful not to return her embrace. Sammy couldn't see them right know, but the eternally dying prophet knew these appendages were unchanged. Still dripping. Still black. Still _ink._

And yet.

The dark being's elbows bent and eventually, smothered fingertips were laid upon her back. But they were thrown back just as soon; his cold touch had made her shiver.

He took a step back to allow her to finally release him, as she must have wanted-

"No, no! It's…okay."

"…"

His arms hung back in the air behind her again, hesitant with every ounce of doubt in the world, not daring to invade past an invisible barrier once more. In reply, the lean into his chest became stronger. He could feel the force of it reshape him ever so slightly.

"It's okay."

"…"

"It's okay."

And Francine repeated it over and over, each utterance somehow gentler than the last. Not demanding, not scolding.

Just…truthful.

So finally, wet palms touched her back once again.

…

…

And there was no shiver.

Sammy did his best to mimic the comfort his friend gifted to him, folding his arms around her back. It wasn't intended, but the man found that he was pushing her into himself, as if doing so made him more human than before.

It was okay.

Maybe even if that was a lie, just for now…he would believe it.

And all that heard Francine's assurance would try to accept, lest they lose the hope that kept them from crumbling apart.


	53. What We Have is Enough

**53- What We Have is Enough**

"' _For his eyes are on the ways of a man, and he sees all his steps.'"_ – Job 34:21

* * *

Sammy had finally, finally allowed himself to embrace not just Francine, but all associated with her.

How incredible it was what this band room had witnessed until this point.

It was the room where Francine revealed so briefly yet so very long ago her first deepest fear- that Sammy hated her, kept her trapped alongside him for whatever selfish need his twisted religion compelled him for. This was where in his utter desperation to grasp the communion and comradery he had longed for so, so long, he made himself bare- revealing how unsure he was in what he had done for his lord all these years. This was where Sammy began to realize that it was not a human sacrifice Bendy seemed to require of him but a sacrifice of his old, self-preserving ways; he was to guide the woman through this darkness and was to help retain the flame of her untouched soul lest it be taken by the very ink that had imprisoned him for as long as he could remember.

For Francine, these walls were audience to her songs. These instruments listeners to her confessions of rage and misery. But most of all- and she had to remember, it was most importantly- that the dust and the dangling microphones lined with the papery golden light of the lightbulbs and candles were friends in the reconciliation of the disciples time and time again. As she let the cold of his body sweep over her, it set free a bittersweet smile.

And in this moment, the cutout above watched in silence, the visage of their god smiling down upon them.

The eyes that not only saw all, but had seen everything this room had ever, ever seen.

Even before the death of the studio, even before the rebirth of Sammy and his department into the prophet and his ghostly congregation.

And now this man of curses and faith was beginning to wonder what those eyes saw, too.

They were, of course, the same painted upon his second face.

Now, Francine had proven her own determination, but to say Sammy was without his own would have neglected the very nature of his existence. If he did not have it, where would his lost soul be? Doubtlessly it would still be rotting in the puddles, groaning and wailing with the eternal anguish of every other stolen being that had nothing more in them than to just give up.

His faith was what had caused him to reform each time his body dissipated, what led him to put on the mask and see life anew. He had hope now, and it took a long time to see it, but Francine seemed to be the penultimate accumulation of such biding hope- the fuzz of light at the end of the tunnel, the blurring colors on the horizon as the sun finally prepares to emerge and stain the darkness away.

But about the same time, her small flicker amid the black made him so terribly afraid of the shapes it made, like a candle placed upon the floor of a cave; just enough to set free the shadows that made his heart flutter with the worst of anxieties.

Just enough to know something was there, but not what it was.

Maybe Sammy didn't have his own eyes, but both disciples could barely see in their peripheral that their new "complete" view of the world wasn't complete at all. The woman now had to hide the existence of an entire human being, and the man could barely glimpse into the light that peeks through the crack under the closed door of his past.

To know what happened before all this was what they craved for, but it was also their unbearable affliction- their new lifelong burden.

The two believers now saw someone new:

Francine the man who was responsible for their desolation, who prayed that he never hurt another again even if it meant no one knew he existed.

And Sammy the man who discarded one thin, broken layer of vision over his eyes for another.

Because sometimes to see means to finally become aware you see nothing at all. How amazing and yet awful it was for her to help him discover both how he looked now and how he looked back when he was human.

Human just like her.

But as each felt the other press their hands onto their back, maybe it would be okay anyway. Maybe being human means to be uncomfortable, and maybe to have faith means to also always have fear and doubt.

And the eyes of the studio stared at them, marveling at the preservation of love and selflessness despite all that had been done that could have erased the treasure held between their hearts amid this hug.

It hoped itself to never be provoked to endanger it again.

 _Please…now that you know…just let it be. There will be no peace in seeking for more._

 _What we have is enough._


	54. To Believe

**54- To Believe**

" _These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth."_ – Hebrews 11:13

* * *

How is it that something can be both so wonderful, yet so unbelievably terrible?

So dangerous and yet so comfortingly safe?

So vulnerable to truth and yet so steeled against certainty?

Contradictions are the best way to describe the human experience- maybe every experience one can ever have. Each and every spirit of the studio- new and old- would doubtlessly agree.

…Despite how awful it was to.

Do you know why some people are so peaceful in the face of something absolutely, completely disastrous? Assured in times of the greatest uncertainties? It's because these people know how they feel.

Or they've finally accepted that they don't know at all.

And in opposition, so it is the same that some of the greatest distresses in life are during times of wait- because we aren't sure what to do and how to feel about it as we see something coming our way with no known action to slow or speed its arrival. Even if we logically know it will be okay- that there is nothing more we can do besides let fate come its way- we are helpless but to fret.

Often, it's not the event that we fear but the accumulation of dread in anticipating its arrival, each second a grain added to a rising, choking pit of quicksand wrapping tight around our legs.

So it is that the wait that can kill us.

And so it was the wait that the souls of the studio had been buried with, a grave piled onto the coffin of rebirth after death beside the beaches of ink.

The longest wait of all isn't intended to be outclassed. The drifting tides of life aren't meant to still be free to roam through cracks of eternity, like streams out of a river once someone's body dies and whatever essence that made them alive leaks blindly, beautifully into the universe.

So of course, that which is against the nature of human souls was more frustration, more agony than Francine could ever know. More than what Sammy, Alice, and Norman could ever describe even if they had more than just words.

More than Joey could bear to worsen by his own hand, as much as he feared he could and would.

But of course, the heart is a fierce, resilient thing. So much power in that one spot burning inside your chest that not even a magic that twists your body and mind apart can stop you from finding a way- a way to exist, a way to _be._

A way to make even the vilest of hexes worth what you've been forced to give away.

Francine would soon know that each and every soul had a hope- a passion that kept them from falling apart entirely to the grating scrapes of hellfire and shatters of reality, roughened and molded into another form somehow still at least a remnant of who they used to be…

And maybe just a bit of someone new.

Delving into the past had been very different experiences for the two disciples, but they still brought them once again together to the same place; even apart, they had walked hand in hand facing the darkness of uncertainty while feeling shadows of what they once had gnaw at their heels.

And Francine would find that as terrifying as it was, this world was unstoppable in changing who she was too.

It would be up to her and her alone to assure that who she became was someone she wanted to be, and if this shift was a threat or a promise.

Even against the wishes of all who cared for her.


	55. Locked

**55- Locked**

" _For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."_ \- Matthew 6:21

* * *

There was a time that now felt so, so far back when Francine got her first clue that everything changed. As poetic as it would've been, it wasn't when she had first walked through that old wooden front door, unwittingly shutting out the last rays of natural light she'd see for who knows long as she pulled it closed behind her. Nor was it when the dread of the studio- at this time a feeling of unease rather than horror- had unsettled her so much when rooms were locked away on this introductory floor. Even when it felt like each eye of every poster- every cutout- was crawling over her back when she wasn't looking, that wasn't when she knew things were fundamentally different.

Knob after knob that either gave way or didn't, it wasn't until one door stayed shut that had opened for her before that fear for her cousin surrendered to fear for herself.

Not until the front door that let her in kept her from getting out, only for the floor to open beneath her like a dragon's mouth.

It's a very specific fright to barricaded from safety, from a known haven. A certain tingle down your neck that makes you feel like you're being watched. One Francine didn't expect to feel again.

But here they were.

A grunt roughened the inside of Sammy's throat as he tugged and pulled with all his might at the saferoom door, but it would not budge. It simply groaned back, metal pushing against metal as locks and boards kept it in place. With each back and forth of this noisy but meaningless conversation, Francine felt a frown dig deeper and deeper into her cheeks.

It, of course, remained as he finally gave up.

With a final release of the door's handle, his arms fell limp by his sides. The mask that had returned to his face stared blankly at the scratches, rust, and stains upon its surface…and yet a painting could still convey dismay.

Somehow, someway, the door had itself locked once Sammy had left to wander, dealing with the feelings she left him to stew in.

Their safe place was gone.

Doesn't it say a lot that this wasn't what bothered Francine the most? The anxiety she had and the definition of "safe" were very, very different from when she first arrived. The shift from being deathly worried about her physical safety had steadily dissolved to the inevitability of severe emotional upset.

Sammy had discovered only shortly before the woman's efforts to make the bedroom of their apartment a place of comfort…a remnant of _home._

And now he was discovering what it looked like to watch her lose it all a second time.

But if it was really so horrible, really so indescribably painful…she hid it well.

She had to.

For her own sake.

As the man saw her eyes slide to the floor, her hands slowly fidgeting over the texture of her backpack straps, he felt he had to say something…but what could ever make up for this besides the haven's return?

He didn't know how, but this had to be his fault. He was the last one to leave, after all- and the blackness that choked his sight and led him to wander into that in grey, papery archive had left him unknowing what happened between then and when he sat among the colors of her old life. He still remembered looking down at the mahogany cloth cascading over his arm as he sat upon the hammock.

And then it was just…gone.

All left with him was his own, oily corpse and the miraculous gift that Bendy-

And then he remembered that even if it wasn't much, he had something more than words to give after all.

"My friend…" Sammy nearly whispered. Normally his voice was as icy as his touch, but this was…soft. Warm. Like trying to hold someone with just the breath from your lungs. It's remarkable how empathy can make the same tone, same notes upon the scale, sound different upon one's lips than it usually would without it.

He saw her chin turn back up. She still wasn't facing him with her body, but now at least their eyes met once again. It made him sigh in some discomforting mixture of relief and remorse, its release seeming to slide down his spine.

The way she gazed up at the man taller than she- the tips of her shoes pointed to touch each other, and her fingers clasped just hard enough upon her backpack straps near her chest that you could see the smallest of indents being made- made even someone as long lost as Sammy to see that this was a stance of childish vulnerability. It was like a student being taken to a new school for the first day, witnessing their home close up behind them as they wait for the bus to take them away for the longest hours they'll ever experience.

But Sammy in all his hundred-so years of being alive and dead knew that even if she was young, to call her a child would be a disservice and a dismissal of all the growing up she had done…and helped him do too.

And that's why even if she wouldn't tell him why she kept her secrets, he trusted her in doing so…at least for now.

The physical presentation of this resolve was so beautifully daunting that it rendered them silent.

Upon his palm and underneath his thumb rested a surface not black and slick with ink but with glass, the reflection of the prophet's scarred mask and her dirty face staring back up at them, looking so very tired. Like a picture frame, their heads were encircled by a rosy border.

Even dulled and darkened in the phone's screen, Sammy could see a pair of eyes slowly but surely widen.

And she could see the teeth behind the visage of Bendy bare as he reacted to her reaction.

And then they both reacted to that.

"I'm sorry-"

"It'll be okay-"

Both at once, both cutting the other off as the surprise of it all made both sets of shoulders rise in a flinch and their heads twitch back up to see the caster of these reflections.

A flurry of blinks from Francine and a slightly gaping mouth behind Sammy's mask.

Suddenly a curve warped upward upon her face until it pushed her cheeks towards her eyes, far enough that you could see her teeth too.

Instead of hiding the growing glossiness between her eyelids, it emphasized it.

With a hushed "come on," both hands finally left her chest- one to take the phone he offered and the other to push its palm upon his back, urging him to finally walk away alongside her to leave lost things be.

But she couldn't help but gaze over her shoulder one more second as they did, her possessions secure but out of reach maybe forever, much like her family.

She didn't stare long, though, because she unconsciously accepted that sometimes a soft place to fall is a person and not a room.

And Sammy kept alongside she despite his reservations, understanding maybe better than anyone else ever could about how much more precious the presence of another soul can be than any treasure you could find.


	56. Rest

**56- Rest**

" _Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."_ – Matthew 11:28

* * *

"Sammy?"

"Yes, Francine?"

"I'm tired."

"I know."

A conversation of few words that still meant much. She was exhausted. A harrowing adventure where she had to run, dodge, and leap until she was breathless, only to be toppled over by the overwhelming weight of discovery.

Not finding another place with a bed only made this ache worsen.

Now she was strangely grateful for the searcher to chase her away from Sammy's sanctuary that time so far back when he left her alone in the band room, settling that it was the apartment she'd live in and not here. Not that her curiosity of this space wasn't finally satiated- not that she wasn't glad to yet again have some closed off space to call her own, but…

Sleeping on the floor gets really old really fast.

And well. The room itself didn't help.

Francine was currently leaning her sore spine onto the wall as she sat upon the floor, opposing Sammy as he sat upon a stool next to a…toilet. She had asked out loud some time ago, "Why would someone install a toilet in here?" but of course Sammy didn't design this room- he simply made use of it, and so he had no answer. Her head thumped so hard with a painful pulse that she could hardly note the details of his haven…

…But it was still enough to make her feel doubtlessly unsettled.

Some sort of giant switch with pipes to the left and a bit ahead on that wall…and to the right, another banjo. That made her smirk. As much as Sammy cared for the one that she broke, there always seemed to be another one of those things within his reach- like it was his destiny.

Well, as her eye trailed towards the desk next to the instrument and then the musician himself, she remembered that to say music was his destiny wouldn't be incorrect.

Francine barely sighed as she looked him over. He was hunched slightly as he sat- or nearly leaned, he was so tall- upon the stool, hands on his knees and mask still facing her way as it had done for probably hours now. How funny was it that a broken piece of wood made her feel…comfort?

Well, maybe "comfort" wasn't the right word, she surmised as he caught her staring back with a head tilt. It's more like…she knew who was there. She knew his _real_ face now, and even when he couldn't live without his mask, to see him even as he couldn't see her had been a gift to her fatigued soul.

Her shoulders laxed back in this reminiscence, and the slight but certain shift it caused in her gaze's focus was about to be a reminder of why his sanctuary wasn't serving as her own right now.

Next to Sammy were yet more words scrawled with ink; a poem about a song, a hymn of "his" coming.

She remembered.

Yet again she began to be consumed by how other people felt about the ink demon, agitating her as they seemed to shout and whimper as she herself was curled up in her own mind much like she was now on the floor, still dealing with her own developing feelings about an inky god.

And she swore that the more tired she got- the more she wanted to sleep but couldn't- the more she actually seemed able to _hear_ these voices. They crawled over her and drifted into her head like wind blown into her ears; it felt like spirits in the pipes up ahead had come to put their hands on her shoulders and-

It was all too much.

The young woman stood up with a groan, cracks in her bones a welcome noise to shake away what must have been the speeches of delirium and insomnia. Sammy remained as he was, but it was clear that his attention was sharply on this sudden change of hers. Francine had relocated often enough since he took her to his sanctuary, getting up or moving around as her body grew restless of wooden surfaces and cold floorboards, but this seemed…different. This seemed purposeful.

As she picked up her bag in confirmation, his heart dropped.

"I gotta go, Sammy," she confessed as she slipped her pink sack over her shoulders, "I really need some rest."

Now Sammy up till this point had done a reasonable job adapting to the considerations of human mortality- especially considering he hadn't needed them himself for as long as his memory allowed. He had abided by her wishes before for food, water, and a place to rest. But to him…she still had all that now. Sure, there wasn't a bed anymore, but…

This was _his_ place of rest. And to be frank, he was hurt by the idea that what had always had been enough for him wasn't enough for her.

You could hear that in his voice.

"Are you not resting _here,_ my shee-" Ah, there it was again, before he interrupted it. He called the woman his "sheep" much as he had referred to the man who visited long, long ago; it came to his tongue whenever he was driven by his obligations to her and their savior. And certainly, he was now.

He stopped himself because now he wasn't sure right now how he felt about the lord who charged him as her steward.

Francine's eyes flickered over him as the quiet that followed grew. As much as she lamented that he couldn't understand, she felt sorry. There was a combination of frustration as well as sympathy for his lack of comprehension; he didn't know what it was like to need a proper place to sleep, but that wasn't his fault.

And in all her exhaustion, a drive to fulfill this need softened her words but still proved determined to move forward.

"I'm…not, actually." It came out with almost a light laugh, it felt so obvious to her, subdued just a touch by an acceptance of his ignorance. The stretch of her lips, however, was not a smile.

As he slumped further and a mouth behind his mask seemed to stretch as well in concern and incredulity, it was only then that she realized how personal it was for him.

"Sammy…your place is…" A pause as she looked over the room yet again. As much as it bothered her now…- "…special to you. I can tell. And I'm…really happy to have shared it with you- that you'd share it with me when you never had to."

That much was true. At this point she could be in a room on fire and Francine would be happy to see him. The thought of his cares, certainly, counted.

"…But I need to go somewhere else, just for a bit."

And as this was sighed, she realized it meant a bit more than she had first thought. They had just been here together for who knows how long in silence. Neither of them had the energy for conversation nor distraction. They had proven before to be capable of entertaining one another in the past, but this atmosphere was…thick. With what?

She couldn't name it, but there was a gut feeling that she needed breathing room.

"…Alright," Sammy agreed as he stood up from the stool, careful not to step on a sheet of music titled _"The Lighter Side of Hell"_ that laid face up on the floor, "We'll search for another place for you to stay."

She frowned.

"Sammy…" Several blinks fell, pushing away both tiredness and worrying thoughts. "I was thinking I would just go alone."

It took a second for him to register what she had just said. There was no way she could mean that. Every single time he left her side, something happened. That wasn't even an exaggeration; each time they separated, fate had proved it to be the choice of a fool, and he was left looking at her bruises.

Harm that maybe he could have prevented.

But that was only one way to look at it.

Before he could argue- and she could _see_ he was going to- she elaborated.

"Sammy…you gotta stop being scared for me!" The woman shrugged, desperate to convey what she had learned the hard way. "I've- I've made it out okay. I know how to keep those 'search' guys away and I'm not going anywhere that'll have anyone else."

She walked up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I can take care of myself."

After all she did to chase Bendy, her friend would have no idea how much she meant that.

"And after all that's happened with us…I think it'd be good to remember that." A small smile, hoping to get him to grasp what she meant. "I don't want you to be scared for me forever, so let me show you I'll be okay."

And then a truth:

"If we're just gonna be scared every single moment, then what's the point?" She shrugged again, fully aware she was helpless to this reality. "I can't just…think I can't make it here. That'd be terrible- for…both of us." She blinked up at him. "Right?"

And wasn't that right indeed. A hopeless, fearful existence it would be for both if they continued as they did now; Sammy's anxiety for her was justified- and of course Francine was rightfully unwilling to be without him in the face of many dangers- but it was…doing no one good if she _could_ be by herself and they both ignored that. It'd be like attending a papercut as if it was a gaping would.

Exerting energy upon things when it should be conserved for something much more important, maybe even more dire. Especially now that Francine had survived what must have been the worst this studio had for her with only a few scrapes to show for it.

And even though she couldn't see those dents inside his head she'd call eyes, Francine could almost see him blink behind his mask. She prayed in this moment of ponderance that even if he didn't get what she meant, he'd trust her.

God only knows how awful it'd be if she couldn't be trusted to even catch her breath like she asked for. As much as she cared about him, how the prophet would respond next would say a lot about how they moved forward:

He would choose if they were both disciples upon equal ground of if he was the shepherd and the woman was merely his sheep.

His shoulder adjusted as her fingers rested upon it, as he moved his arms up to grip both of her own respectively.

"Please…please come back."

And even as every muscle hurt to do so, she smiled.

* * *

How grateful she was for this. Who would have thought that walking by herself in those dark, dripping halls would be…relieving? Certainly not when she had first arrived to the haunted studio. But now she knew that at least vaguely, she was safe. She wasn't chasing after anything this time, so the weird twistiness of the studio would leave her alone…

…Right?

She tried to push this thought back, realizing she hadn't considered the possibility she was wrong. No time for fears; she was already in too deep now.

And it wasn't only Sammy she was trying to prove something to either.

She had to _live_ here. As much as the idea sickened her, she was beginning to accept it. She couldn't feel like she had to be glued at Sammy's hip or else she'd die. But wait, what if that was true?- No, no, no, no, no, no. Stop that. You're okay. You'll be okay.

What came into sight was not only a good distraction from her doubts, but a sight for sore eyes.

And as she slunk into the couch, it was certainly the same for a sore body.

There was a very good reason that Francine was grateful Sammy didn't ask where she had planned on going. The woman knew she'd be fine, but heaven knows how he'd react if he visualized her as she was now…

… Unwinding by herself amid the comforts of the Heavenly Toys.

Francine could admit that she had thought about doing this for a while. Hell, that couch looked more comfortable than that gurney she called a _bed._ But when you only got so much, sometimes you push things away to survive.

For a while that meant the temptation of resting out in the open where searchers could be, but right now that meant anything but.

And besides, even if Alice came around, she…wasn't scared. Francine wasn't going out of her way to talk to her- or rather bother- and even if she did? She wasn't…worried. Sammy would never believe her- sometimes she wouldn't have either- but she wasn't afraid of any wrath the angel would have. Mortally, anyway.

For some reason she never felt she'd hurt her. Just for some reason.

And as these meditations passed by, suddenly everything felt so comfortable. Francine had been singing as loudly as her sleep-deprived voice would allow, knowing that would keep those half-man things from going after her as long as she did. The way her backpack grazed the sides of her legs as it rested between them was almost a blanket to someone so tired. The low hum of the electric lights above fell in tandem with her voice as she sunk further and further into a seat every bit as comfortable as it looked, and suddenly the room filled with toys seemed like a dream.

It wouldn't hurt to close her eyes, right? She wouldn't fall asleep. No need to turn her phone on for music when she would keep singing.

 _Silly girl._

* * *

A wonderful, beautiful hum floating around her head and through the room. It didn't know the words, but it was still utterly enchanting as it tried its best to imitate Francine's melody. Smooth, sweet, and soothing.

As the woman woke up, there was a delay to identify that something was very different.

Maybe even very, very wrong.

Across the room as her eyes adjusted out of the blurriness of the sandman's touch, black figures organically shifted back and forth, swaying ever so slightly with the sound she heard tint the air. The searchers, yet again, were caught under her spell.

Satisfied, they disappeared as Francine shot up from her seat, leaving the woman alone with her guardian angel, the seraph's legs crossed and an arm stretched past her cherub's back as they now lounged together, side by side.


	57. Somewhere

**57- Somewhere**

" _After singing a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives."_ – Matthew 26:30

* * *

" _You shouldn't be so rec_ kless, little cherub," a voice cooed by her side, slightly broken into two. It was a sing-song tease as Alice made herself known- or rather as Francine came to realize the obvious.

"W-" the woman stuttered breathlessly, jumping to her feet so fast that her head seemed to spin, "What are you-?!"

And even though it was Francine standing up and Alice now seated upon the couch alone, the latter of the women was the one that clearly had control- an aura of regal superiority radiating from a half-closed eye and relaxed fingers softly thumping against the top of the cushion. But of course she did:

"How awfully bold of you to come into _my_ space and ask me what _I'm_ doing here."

Shit.

Francine couldn't seem to catch her breath after waking up so fast, but unease was now what kept her lungs just short of what she needed. Purposefully or not, she had fallen asleep in the seraph's domain. It wasn't like Francine hadn't anticipated maybe _something_ in response to her taking rest in the entrance of Heavenly Toys, but what she had mentally prepared for was what seemed to be the usual complaint Alice sent through the speakers overhead. Heck, maybe she even a threat. The intruder felt ready for that, if only she could sit by herself just for a moment and let her mind go.

But it had gone too far by no one's folly but her own, and the warden of dolls herself had arrived in response.

Heaven only knew if this was merely a scolding or a show of wrath, and so the woman couldn't help but feel her pulse pound through her arms even as Alice looked so calmly back up. There was only one thing left to do-

"I'm- I'm sorry!" she squeaked, voice still subdued by exhaustion. Francine reached down for her bag; even though it was so much closer to her than to the angel, the dread of invading her personal space was overwhelming enough to make her take it as fast and as the waking muscles in her arms allowed. Alice's gaze simply followed the movement, but an uneven face seemed to only pierce into the woman more and more with the silence of judgement.

"I'll…I'll leave now. Sorry."

And just as the mortal took a step back to pivot and run from the consequences-

"Not so soon, are you?"

-…They had come for her faster than she could leave them behind.

Francine looked past her now half-turned shoulder to see the angel rise from her lounge. God, she forgot she was so tall. All the ink beings were simply bigger than the woman, and so to say they all made her feel small would be an understatement.

So of course, she was anxious about what would happen next. Her breath quickened, and her pulse felt like it's load had abruptly grown heavier. Eyes twitched about as she gazed at the angel, fast blinks that betrayed how turbulent her inner thoughts had become.

But as the angel stood up, maybe in her height she saw something more. Maybe the dark bags under the woman's eyes; maybe the shake in her fingers under the stress of the stained bag's weight; maybe the slight tremble of her lip that served as evidence that her mouth couldn't even gape without being tired.

Maybe she saw all that, or maybe she only saw an opportunity. Either way, Alice decided then to act upon it.

"Come with me."

And with an expression certain of something Francine couldn't name, the woman of paper and ink tilted towards the staircase to the workshop, and somehow an empty, black eye socket seemed to stare back at her in wait.

And Francine took a second to stare back before finally taking in one sure, steadying breath to find composure. She nodded, knowing she was ready as could be for whatever was next.

Which was still not at all.

What Alice had to say as she began to lead the woman away from her time of peace only made it worse.

"We need to talk."

* * *

Well this was certainly different.

Francine sat upon yet another soft couch with yet more toys in what could be best described as a dressing room, only willing to rest once again after Alice gestured that she do so. The stuffed toy that looked like how…well…Alice was _supposed_ to look like was both a childish comfort and yet another pair of eyes to make her feel watched.

So this was the path of the angel, huh? It was about as different as the demon path could be. No ink upon the floors and none of the accompanying terror that came with it. To think that right now behind the wall in front of her was placed that tape that made her start that chase of a god-

As Alice leaned onto the cabinet right across from her, arms crossed and chin turned down, Francine remembered there were more important things to think about right now.

What did Alice want to talk to her for? The woman hoped that it was just to address that she shouldn't come here again; their last meeting wasn't…of the lightest tone. Well, she _did_ give Francine that photo, but…-

And there again- her mind wandered again to the hunt for answers that had turned an upside-down life upside-down once more. Francine was almost grateful that the angel finally interrupted her lost thoughts.

" _Why are you here?"_

The sweeter of the voices she possessed was the one used now. Was there a pattern in which spoke? There had to have been, but the woman couldn't sparse it out. Regardless, it was an inevitable question that Francine was glad to answer in hopes to receive mercy for her behavior.

"My…room got locked and I can't get in. I just wanted somewhere to sleep-"

"No."

And the smoother tone came back, weighted with intent as the black and white toon talked over an excuse. Dark bangs brushed her forehead as Alice shifted, the shadow of them falling over her eye and socket.

"Why are you here?" she repeated.

…Oh.

Francine forgot that not everyone just knew as Sammy did. But she had to tell _him_ of course. She must have been the biggest mystery to Alice; in front of her was a woman that interrupted her plight for perfection just as the angel interrupted her pity party.

And even as tired as she was, the studio's intruder sighed before seeing she had to validate her chaotic presence in an ecosystem that carried on as is without any disruption before as she had brought now.

It took…a while to tell it again- or it at least felt that way. Was it only a few sentences, or was it an hour or so of recollection and lament? Francine wouldn't have been able to tell you.

The pain of losing your life is timeless.

Finally, quiet.

Both singers gripped their own arms, but the meanings they held her entirely different. Francine was raw with emotion, being forced to remember yet again what it felt like to fear Gabby was gone forever- only to realize it was she that may be. And so, she was holding herself, as if letting go would make everything inside her flood out and away to god knows where.

Her mouth felt like a dam overflowing with hurt and longing, and so she was grateful for it to finally be free to close shut. There was a hope Alice would be satisfied and let her go…but she was anything but.

Because as Alice unfolded one arm to put an ink-gloved hand to her chin, she wanted to dive into the very thing Francine was afraid would make her drown.

" _That doesn't explain anything…!"_

What? What was she-

"This doesn't explain any of that…!"

As the angel's face twisted into one of growing concern, Francine's mirrored with growing fear of the unfamiliar. "What? What do you mean-?"

"I _MEAN_ -" Alice began to almost shout, removing her lean so she may fully face her uninvited guest, "-that this is _no reason_ for the ink demon to do all he has!"

At first Francine was afraid she was being called a liar in her own tale of finding her cousin. Now? She knew she was wrong; it had to be about something else. But-

"I don't understand," the mortal managed to reply with wide eyes pinched slightly at the bottom, cheeks pressed back in shock and dismay.

And then the seraph with half of a melted face seemed to melt even more with her own boiling upset.

"… _I saw you."_ Her throat seemed to be choking on her own words as they emerged hushed and shaken. Rage. Confusion. _Worry._ "I saw you chase after him. _I saw the walls change and swallow you away."_

Finally, Francine's jaw dropped as she comprehended the nature of her questioning. But the horned detective wasn't done.

" _You were gone. I couldn't follow you anymore- it all went…black."_ The formed lips upon Alice's face parted so that both sides showed teeth, and she almost seemed to spit through them now, she spoke so harshly. "I thought you were _dead."_

And that's why she had begged Francine stay. From her perspective, Alice had only spotted what had occurred in her domain; and even as much had happened there, it was not enough to understand. Hell, Francine was there for all of it and still didn't understand, herself. The demon almost seemed to be playing a game- that is, if he had anything to do with the shapeshifting wood and pipes. If not-

"He…helped me."

It was a tender admission. How terrifying it is to realize you've been put into the hands of someone you can't comprehend at all- not their motives, thoughts, or even ways. That was she with Bendy, the liquid shadow that seemed to follow at her heels.

Maybe Alice felt this vulnerability radiate from Francine's heart, because the woman heard a light gasp and an expression sharp with bewilderment seemed to soften.

But then…it twisted into something much more _doubtful._

"With what?"

Taken aback. Stolen breath. Racing pulse.

Francine knew she couldn't tell her. What could she even say?! The only way to explain what happened would be to break her promise- to let the studio know that Joey was not only alive but well- still rosy red with human blood in his veins, still filling and emptying his lungs when he so selfishly took the same right from everyone else.

And she remembered, most vitally, how Joey so certainly wary of what would happen if they knew, too.

The longer it took for Francine to reply, the further Alice's face was warped by suspicion. She had to say something-

"He helped me try to find something I lost."

An explanation blurted out before she could censor it in any way. It was a lie. God, Francine hated lies.

But it made Alice's scrutiny wane into something more…curious, and so the burden of deceit was countered with the relief of budding trust.

"…And what was that?" came the counter.

Silence. The mortal's stare was glued to her hands- to her and the angel's feet. What would the ink demon help her find?!

" _The boy?"_

Francine's turn to gasp, flinging her head up to see Alice had come closer. Black lips- even torn in two- still seemed to part in amazement. A story was being woven by the heavenly being's own imagination as the mortal made her wait in suspense.

And as much as it made Francine hate herself, she would allow it.

A nod. She couldn't bear to actually speak such a falsehood, so she prayed this would be enough.

It was.

And now in Alice's mind, everything hinged on one thing:

"… _Did you find him?"_

Hands clasped tight until she could feel the sweat from one hand moisten the other. Francine dipped her head again, biting her bottom lip as her heart swelled with something awful. For once in this whole debacle, she could say something that was true.

But of course, it had to be the worst.

"No."

An utterance barely came from Alice's mouth, something between a groan and a sigh high-pitched with the sting of dare she say s _ympathy._ But if it was kindness undeserved the haloed spirit let leak from her lips, she soon sealed it back shut.

"I…see."

And the air once again knew no sound but the blooming reaches of awkwardness, both women falling from the heights of intense emotion until the impact hit them senseless. Apparently one of them couldn't leave it with that.

You'd be surprised who.

"…What song was that, little songbird? The one you were mumbling earlier?"

This made their sights meet again, and the mortal weary with her own body and tongue managed to spot the…gentleness ahead of her, glossing that single iris, somehow even helping her black hair frame a pale, torn face until it seemed a bit more solid than before thanks to the touch of humanity.

It was enough for Francine to push back the sickness she made herself feel so she may speak again:

" _Somewhere Only We Know."_

An amused grunt from the being surrounded by her own image in this room of soft pillows and candlelight.

"Isn't that ironic?"

A stretch of the mouth to one side- in a smirk instead of a wince this time around as Francine looked around the room and back at her host. "Yeah."

And as the angel stood over her, something came unexpected.

Humming. Wonderful, sweet humming. As much as Sammy was given credit for retaining his musicality, Alice deserved the same, being able to hear a tune once from unprofessional lips not even in the same room. She identified it, repeated it, and made it _better._

Suddenly Francine wasn't only fatigued by a lack of sleep. The events of the studio caught up with her, finding weakness in the cracks of her soul as she never had a true opportunity for repose. Like before, she so foolishly let her eyes close to the sound of a soothing promise of peace and settled feelings somewhere, some day to come.

"You may stay here if you need, my cherub," Francine heard a voice linger somewhere by her side. It was tinged with a tone so similar to the lullaby that she almost didn't perceive it amid the rest of her words. "I'll advise you again to leave alone as best you can."

A pause. Maybe she was thinking about Sammy, wondering why the past two times the mortal wandered her halls he seemed to have no part in it. Maybe it was about the ink demon, in all her assurance of his evils- questioning how or why he would possibly help the girl in search for who she lost. Regardless, this was the guidance Alice had for someone with everything she ever wanted.

" _I don't want to see someone with as much as you have to lose it all for nothing."_

* * *

There was no telling what separated this moment from the next. Not how long Francine slept, nor how long it took for the change to take place.

But it did.

An organic hum of a choir of two within one at some point had given way to an unnatural one. It was like that of the pipes but louder…and somehow more far away. It reverberated until you could feel it inside your chest, making the blood inside you ripple from your heart to the tips of your fingers.

When the studio's unwelcome wanderer awoke, she saw that she was alone.

But more importantly, she saw that the wall ahead had left her too, leaving nothing behind but a gaping hole into a hallway with no seen end.

As she rested upon the couch, waking up to face this void felt like it was trying to suck her very soul inside with an invisible, untouchable wind. As shaken as she was, something about this…spoke to her. Even as fear gripped her neck, it felt like a tug rather than a choke.

You can only oppose a darkness like this for so long before it eats you up, and so with one last look to the exits both right and left- thinking of Sammy and Alice respectively in either direction- Francine moved between towards something impossible.

As she was convinced by a wordless magic, all it had to do was call to her need to know, a need to _prove_. And what bigger mystery was it than this, what greater deed than to go alone where she hadn't before- because now that her life lacked what she had before, there was almost a compulsion now to push on as if she could not retain her agency otherwise.

It was so strange how both grateful and dreadful someone felt as a step crossed trustingly once again into the unknown.


	58. Only We Know

**58- Only We Know**

" _Give strong drink to the one who is perishing, and wine to those in bitter distress; let them drink and forget their poverty and remember their misery no more."_ – Proverbs 31:6-7

* * *

Maybe it shouldn't have been so unexpected where the studio led to her next. It brought out of the gloom a line of eggshell white- a form that grew as light shifted to reveal more and more of a statuesque shape ahead. An oval waxed much like a moon does as the month goes on until the brim of this curve touched its base, haloing above a shade of orange-red that seemed to become brighter the closer she got. And as she observed the figure that waited in the shadows, her eyes flew side to side in inspection.

That's because suddenly, a sound had filled the air. Rattling. Metal? Windchimes? It was a high-pitched tingle- almost like fairies flew invisible overhead until the space around Francine was encompassed with the music of their dust.

As her sight settled, so did the wordless voices of the ethereal. Light dawned until it touched the walls, and the sound of magic became a slowly drifting sound of shifting paper.

Her eyes adjusted just in time to see a sourceless wind cease to push the thin layer loosely plastered vertically about her, and drawings all around finally stilled so they may stare.

She stared back.

Smile after smile after smile. The same one with those familiar, angular eyes above bared teeth.

Face upon face grinned upon her. Many were crude. Some were nearly perfect- and a few were hardly recognizable at all.

But they were all, undoubtedly, _Bendy._

And at some point she had unwittingly stepped into a silent standoff, the nature of it uncertain to be hostile or simply awed. Too much paranoia or just enough awareness made it seem like each childish replica of the studio's master was looking right at her.

It was interrupted by a gasp.

Up until now, she had been too distracted by the reveal of the environment to see as the darkness unfurled to not only give her a new world, but someone to share it with.

But unlike these walls, the person entrapped by them was one she was acquainted with.

"I…" he began with a soft voice subdued by astonishment, "…Hadn't expected you back so soon…!"

And then the strange murk of the room fully pulled back, candlelight upon the floor gifting the woman a being that maybe she had unconsciously wanted to see again all along.

"Maybe never," Joey Drew added under his breath.

Inexplicably, the studio had allowed Francine to find the very person it had fought so hard to keep away. It was flabbergasting, even when putting aside the supernatural manner in which she had arrived. The last time was a _struggle;_ the moving wood stood in her path like jungle vines coming to life, only able to be kept at bay by the culling of an axe's rusting blade. To simply… _give_ him to her now was... _preposterous_ to a woman weary of battling for every piece of humanity she had ever found since she arrived.

It seemed that this scrap of an old life was just as surprised to see her, too, judging from the way his golden eyes stretched wide behind ink-stained glasses.

"H…hey."

An utterly dumfounded mumble of a greeting she gave in response, still not done processing who and where the studio brought her too.

As the seconds ticked by, a balance shifted. Francine remained frozen in her bewilderment while something dawned upon Joey's lightly wrinkled face. He…softened- as he saw something in her, in this situation that they had been dropped into like experimental rats meeting in the middle of the same maze.

"It's… _good_ to see you."

Now there was no proper way to describe how much this meant to the ginger spirit. Someone that admitted he was scared for anyone to witness let alone _speak_ to him again- lest he bring them more harm. He was fearful of the same now that Francine was in his presence but maybe…maybe she didn't know him well enough for her keeper be quite as submissive to his apprehensions.

It would continue to agonize him either way, seeing a precious soul risk all she had just to walk further into his abyss.

But despite this dread, undoubtedly it was- truly- good to see her; he had to admit that.

Rosy knuckles slowly uncurled their fingers, instinctively rising to an occasion that he had never expected to see again.

Dumbstruck with nothing more she could say nor do, Francine gave Joey the first handshake a human's grasp had given him in almost a century. She caught a glimpse of a streak across his palm of a different tone than the rest of his skin, but soon the pull of his expression caught her attention instead.

Wide eyes under a brow furrowed with perplexity met those behind glass; they saw them pinch up as a huff of a laugh briefly graced his lips with disbelief, flickering up and down as a soul choked dry of companionship for so, so long drank in the person before him and the impossible touch of her hand.

Eyelashes fluttered with slow but numerous blinks, Francine stunned and gaping at the short man with the awkward but certainly cordial mannerisms.

"Please, sit with me, won't you?"

As Joey gestured behind him, Francine noticed a large box- a desk. It was a smooth sort of finish- not the scratchiness of the other furniture of wood she had come across, and there was a chair on each side of different, grander styles than she'd seen here before.

Only heaven could say how much relief was seeped into the sigh that accompanied her back sinking into soft, supportive cushioning. Even if she had just come from a couch, days upon days of wood and thin cloth had left a gaping desire for surfaces more fitting for living. With her breath's release, eyelids shut, and a slightly pouted lip remaining open as Francine felt her spine's reprieve.

Joey, however, still stood as he approached the opposing seat. The sight of her like this seemed to grab him, brow curling downward with concern as his mouth stretched back in something right between a frown and a gentle grin.

You could hear papers shuffle beneath his unhurried feet as he adjusted himself behind his own chair, arms folded to rest across the top with his glasses shining sharp over a softened face; he was observing.

He didn't get to speak with his consequences so often.

"Are you comfortable?" Spoken almost unfathomably quietly, half a laugh at her quick adjustment and half choking on the sight of it. Finally, her eyes opened again and refocused upon the ghostly cartoonist with a reserved nod.

Whatever curved his mouth now chose to drop it.

"I'm so sorry," he replied in nearly a whisper, he being the reason she missed this softness at all.

Side to side her eyes rolled across the floor until eventually discovering what he meant; and even as she understood, she still had no words. Simply numb and drawn to meet his gaze again despite her inability to respond.

His own eyes blinked with the self-consciousness, the guilt of it, and the grip upon his sleeves tightened and fumbled as he eventually turned his head away with overcoming feelings.

A few breaths of silence, the two of flesh and blood again alone with his sins.

…And maybe hers too.

"Now, you must have come for a reason."

That made her chin almost jump to look up at him, drifting back down just a second before.

Across from Francine, Joey was still keeping his lean on the back of that chair; his legs crossed behind him, toes tipped to the floor as most weight went to his front and upper body. His chin still turned to the side, but there was no doubt that the one visible eye of his profile was upon her.

"Why are you here?"

That question again, so soon- _much_ too soon. A heavy sigh fell from her lips, so very exhausted of it.

"I'm here because I was looking for someone…-"

Francine's voice trailed off, one last nearly shameful look to him before shaking her head and closing her eyes.

"I'm sorry…it's just…a lot to remember and I'm really tired-"

"Darling, _no!"_ And lids opened back up to see worry fall down his face like a rainy day with no umbrella, a light exclamation to match. The older man shrugged with his interjection as best as he could with how his arms were positioned. Apparently he then noticed his own confusing tone, his left fingers soon coming to his mouth in unison as if to hush himself.

"What I mean is…Why did you come to me, wandering all on your own like this?"

The absolute opposite of what Alice had done; Joey was gently inquiring about the nature of her current thoughts and travels rather than demanding she validate her very existence. Such consideration briefly sent her reeling, but the woman managed to compose a reply.

"I'm…really tired," was the repeated answer, "I can't get back to my bed and I wanted somewhere to rest."

And then for the first time for maybe his entire new life- a real, full smile graced his lips.

"How does it feel?"

A pause before realizing, the cushions smothering her back and underarms; and when she did, a curve came to her face too- a weak one, just for a second.

"Nice."

It finally reached his eyes, crow's feet growing tighter together and those once well-earned laugh lines reclaiming their fame long, long lost along with all he held dear.

"Good."

Another breath of silence. But of course, we are socialized to enjoy such genuine smiles as his no matter how strange the circumstances of their coming may be, and so Francine had no choice but to return it with her own. But soon she found it was more than instinct, and so uncomfortable with her own inexplicable feelings of peace, her eyes fell shyly from his face down to the table-

…Something upon it, starting to become visible as light slid down its smooth, curved surface. A vase? A vase with-

" _Flowers…!"_

And there they were, a clump of blooms sitting in front of her. Even dried- even withered far, far past death into the pale browns and yellows of autumn…there they were.

Before she even recognized it, the petals were fading at her fingertips, her arm outstretched so the back of her hand may delicately immerse itself into a simple pleasure she had unconsciously expected to never have again.

Francine couldn't deny sensing the stretch of her lips pull further and further up as she did.

"You think often about other people, don't you?"

Just beyond the plants so old they seemed to have turned into paper themselves, a man of a complimentary shade of cream had given a blunt observation in the form of a question, worded in such a way that it necessitated a reply.

One eyebrow raised, Francine's hand pulling back as her attention was altered yet again. "What makes you say that?"

"Well," he began with a bit of a cough, stepping around the back of the chair so he may mirror her seating, "When I asked you about yourself, the very first thing you told me was that you arrived because of someone else." Before she could interrupt to give some sort of clarification- how, she didn't know yet- he continued.

"But what about _you?"_

And that gentle expression upon his face suddenly seemed much more knowing. Hers, however, only lurched further into bewilderment.

That was enough of a response for him.

"You've been here for a bit of a while, my dear girl." Mr. Drew tipped his hat off his head with a tired yet obviously practiced flair, looking it over with half-lidded eyes as it dangled between his middle finger and thumb upside-down. "And I haven't once heard you talk about what _you_ were like-"

He set the hat down next to the glass jar between them, a petal or two falling inside its void with the barely a bump he caused in doing so.

"-Only…what _others_ were like." Fingers tented together and one leg crossed over the other, Joey looked past his hands upon a woman so, so much younger than he thanks only to forces beyond comprehension.

It was incredible how such a short period of time had made purely human things incomprehensible, too.

People always questioned Francine's survival here. Often they denied her what made them feel secure in this hell- or only very, very hesitantly shared it. It was as if Bendy's preservation of her was a slight to them, and honestly?

Sometimes she wondered if she'd have been better off like however they were instead of retaining what they envied.

Only in her darkest moments.

She pushed that back and away, a crisis to deal with another day. Right now was something else, something…important. She had been questioned as a being but not always thought of as a _person._ And until Joey pointed it out, she never recognized it quite like this.

How…stressful this alone had been.

And indeed, in others' ignoring and ignorance of her own plights, pains, hopes, and history- she had chased after those of everyone else.

As if she could piece them back together. As if _they_ could piece _her_ back together.

As if the collage their memories formed, once complete, would blanket over the sickening sight of everything she had to leave behind.

"Frankie…"

His voice was so hollow yet so, very warm. Those honey irises weren't staring at Francine in wonder- they looked upon her with a _cceptance._

 _He understood her kind of sacrifice like no one else could. Only he knew what it was like to be so selfless._

"Tell me about what makes you who _you_ are. Not Sammy, not Susie, not the ink demon." And then he shifted his whole body forward, as if getting closer to her somehow helped.

It…did.

"Tell me about _Francine."_

And for the first time in however many weeks she'd been talking to spirits long severed from lives of old, she was not only allowed but invited to tell her story instead of merely elaborating how she was connected to their curse, linked to the misery of this universe. As she had proved of everyone else, now it was her turn to be unique in who she was and who she wanted to be in her life to come. She let Joey and the drawings listen instead of speak over her.

Some of it hurt, some of it healed, but it all flooded from her heart so, so readily.

Mr. Drew prayed that having her remember herself could get this wonderful young woman to forget that the beings around her used to have something to their name- if they could even recall them. It wasn't her job.

It wasn't her duty to find what they lost, he firmly decided then and there.

Her name was Francine Vahl, and she was a college student with a cat named Neptune, and she had vines of morning glories and moonflowers that tangled over each other in the back garden.


	59. Savior

**59- Savior**

" _But the Lord was with Joseph and showed him steadfast love and gave him favor in the sight of the keeper of the prison."_ – Genesis 39:21

* * *

Why was it so easy to suddenly find herself walking alongside this old man?

It must have been her wandering spirit, one soul joined by another akin in restless ways within trapping barriers. It was more of a pace, however, than a walk; a dragged look to the drawings upon these aged walls. And certainly they _were_ drawn- not printed posters like those of other halls. And as she saw his pale fingers graze against the papers, tips oh so gently pulled across each and every one that fell beside his risen palm, Francine noticed there was something more…specific than that, even, in how to describe what she saw. The way they were sketched, the way they were signed…

"This is kids' art," she realized under her breath.

Joey paused in place, middle and ring finger caught underneath a flap of one of these makeshift pieces of wallpaper. His shoulders rose and fell in a silent sigh.

"That's right," he answered quietly. A second- and then…

His light touch turned into a grip, a slight crease where his thumb pressed across this Bendy's cheek, before tugging this particular piece from its reserved spot. A stare fell upon it as he took the drawing, holding it up between himself and the girl ahead.

"I never threw away a piece of art if I could help it," Joey admitted in a voice dipped in reminiscence, "Not a _single_ thing anyone gifted to me."

It was such a slow movement- almost like a misty ghost drifting along with a night's breeze- but soon Mr. Drew was by Francine's side, shoulders brushing each other as he offered the childish drawing for her to behold as well. It was hesitantly accepted, unsure if the passage of time since it's making would mean a careless touch could tear it apart.

But no, just as it had for the cartoonist, it remained intact for her unskilled hands. This one was…painted. In the candles' dim glow all around, she could see past the shadow her head and shoulders casted upon the paper to observe its personal details; fingerprints undoubtedly were what framed this vaguely familiar face- some smudged purposefully as a decorative border, some surely the inevitable and accidental trailings of a youngster's messy hands as they picked up their creation with haphazard pride.

A hushed laugh from behind her shoulder, not one of joy but of the longing of what he could see in his mind but no longer have in front of him again.

"Christopher," he mused with dismay, tapping against the large signature sloppily but lovingly scrawled in the corner, "I remember him…A good boy…So proud that he asked his parents to take him all the way to my very own studio, just so I could see this too."

The pie-eyed toon innocently stared back at its inventor until Joey took it back out of Francine's grasp and replaced the sheet back among the many, many others.

Now, Francine was still very delicate herself- as much as the faded soul next to her was. They both were rediscovering vulnerability side by side- both allowing memories of not what Mr. Drew had taken away but of what made them who they were before all this. There was a lot of overlap in such a concept, so it was…bittersweet. Extremely so.

That was the word that described Joey best, though, especially now that he knew who she was before.

The young college student's eyes towed from picture to picture, like a string pulled them all along together and she was trying to find where it led.

Of course, it took her back to not Bendy's face but that of his maker.

His eyelids were half closed, a smile playing with the corner of his lip but not allowing it to truly curl up. Sadness had washed over him while her attention was away and left the man mute as the voices of the those who bestowed these papers into his custody chimed again in his head like they were last heard yesterday.

As timeless as his realm was, they might as well have been.

"Even…even the first sketch we made," he murmured, breathless amid a frozen century, "Even before I knew how _special_ Bendy was going to be…I kept it."

With their god the ink demon, it served as both an emotional sentiment as well as a confession of sin.

But the strength of neither stopped her curiosity.

"Where's that one?"

Joey's eyes behind their ink-splattered glasses then fluttered back to being fully open, shifting his neck to look at her and putting his hand to his heart in quiet but certain astonishment.

She saw his honey irises glance over her, up and down before his expression fell once again and he turned back away.

"It's gone."

This…was a tonal shift, hearty enough to make Francine second guess her gut feeling to press further, so for now…she would let this go. Her eyes finally pried off the back of his head- the hat still remaining on the desk a ways away to reveal his hair's slicked nature and slight lengthiness down his neck- and she joined him in his forward stare.

She could endure the drawings' piercing stares of judgement just a moment longer, just for him to be free of a bit less pain in memory.

There was, however, something else just at the right level of discomfort for her to address.

"Why's this place different since I've been here?" A pause- clarification was needed. "To see you, I mean."

This seemed to disrupt his current freezing in place, because his head shifted briefly towards her in scrutiny before turning forward once again. She could see his gaze wavering.

"Oh darling…this curse is a _puzzle,"_ a lamentation sighed from his lips, "I still can't tell if I've been passed from one place to another or if the room itself changed!" He let a smile tease with his mouth just a second, finding humor in horror until the latter thing became all too familiar once again.

"It… imprisons me, regardless." A remarkable softening as Francine saw his nose turn up with a curled brow, slowly taking in all around him. "No matter how much it shifts into new shapes, it'll still be my cage."

And then his wandering began again, perhaps uncomfortable with the motionlessness of this environment embodying misdeeds, wishing to keep moving so his mind may as well.

But as he turned and she stepped alongside-

"So... What makes it do that?"

Francine's naïve inquiry stopped him in his tracks, but it almost seemed like throwing the breaks of a train; his body may have been immobilized, but it took a second for thoughts to cease rattling in his skull with the sudden change. Finally, he looked at her once again.

Something…shifted over Joey's face. At first, a slight squint- worry seeming to pinch the underneath of his eyes- before he continued back on his way, head slowly returning ahead and away from his guest.

"...Heaven knows," came her answer in a low whisper.

"Did you know it does that other places too?"

Yet another interruption, yet again unexpected, yet again made him pause.

"…What do you mean?" Joey bounced the question back at her, his voice seeming to be deeply soaked with an upset he managed to quiet.

Francine saw him look her over yet again. He seemed…haunted. It haunted her in return, apprehension urging her to put her hands underneath her chest and have them hold each other in anxiety.

Oh god. He looked so… _stressed_. A man that already dealt with so much just…- in allowing himself to see her now. And now he seemed like he was barely holding himself together, only for her sake, as she revealed aspects of a world he created but did not fully know.

…But he deserved to know.

"Like…like when I started to look for you," she stammered hesitantly, forcing herself to meet his eyes no matter how much her gut begged to shy away, "It got...different. It got... _scary."_

That last word seemed to resonate, dissipating into the air around him, changing the atmosphere itself.

"...Is that so?"

A tone both curious and cautious, and so she suddenly felt empowered.

 _"Yeah...!"_

And then, a quiet huff of a laugh from the man by her side. "Well isn't that something."

The brown from the corner of his eye finally moved off her with a blink. Something swept over his demeanor this moment; Francine assumed it must have been a realization to him- that not only did the studio change to continue to entrap him, but that it willfully warped to terrorize others as well.

The shock of it all must have been what rendered the humans silent with ponderance for a minute or so.

But as was her steady way, it couldn't hush Francine forever.

"Joey?"

And this time when he stopped walking, he turned to her almost expectantly, half-lidded eyes and a gentle voice and gaze.

But undoubtedly, an aura of great seriousness, of immense awareness.

"Yes, my dear?"

The woman felt a frown press into her cheeks, unknowing how to say what was upon her tongue nor entirely _what_ she needed to say in the first place.

Certainly though, there was something there they couldn't ignore. And he needed it.

 _She_ needed it.

"Why did it let me find you?" she finally found to speak.

A few blinks from him and a furrowed brow… Troubled. He was troubled by this.

"I'm going to sound like a broken record, darling, but...heaven knows."

More silence, but this kind was different. This kind was d _eliberation._ And after a moment, her eyes quietly lit up.

She found what maybe he could not.

"I...I actually-...don't think it let me."

His look sharpened as she spoke, a slight twitch as if he was adjusting himself to fine-tune his facing her to absolute exactness.

"B-... _Bendy_ showed me how to find you...in _spite_ of it."

A flash- there, across his face. A slight tinge of something- something she couldn't identify. But that wasn't something to mull over, not like what she was beginning to uncover.

It was an…amazingly perplexing concept, if what she was thinking was really true.

"He...he saved my life," she confessed in the quietest voice in the world. Her fingers interlaced with each other so restlessly with this, and it made her feel something to stare down at them as they did so; eventually, though, she managed to pull herself back to this purgatory's architect for a reaction.

There was one; those honey eyes widened, and his expression darkened.

But dawning horror couldn't stop a racing mind.

"I was-" Francine's sentence was cut off by none but herself; maybe to be blunt about her introduction to the demon and his saviorhood would be too much for this frail gentleman, and so the word "dying" was quickly omitted from her tale. "-I was pretty hurt when I first came here and...he just-..."

Remembering.

Sammy. The rope. The touches. The tastes. The pain.

 _ **Bendy.**_

"He...healed me. Somehow," emerged an awed mumble, soft with recollection of not only the impossible rescue of her mortality but of this new, uncertain nature of the demon who did so. Her voice began to tumble in her throat, forcing herself to continue despite a sickening stomach. "And- and then-"

Joey's presence was of complete and utter silence, a witness to her unfolding conspiracies.

"He gave me...my phone back." She pulled the device out of her pocket, one of the few spots of color this world had ever seen. _"This."_

It must have come as a surprise to him, its sudden show momentarily catching his eyes and eyes alone before Joey managed to drag that same gaze back to her. As he did, Francine's hand and the phone in it flopped helplessly down to her side, her mouth gaping with breathlessness.

"I just-...he's..."

And right on the cusp of something just on the edge of her mind- barely out of reach of understanding but still entirely untouchable- it took her. Her eyeballs shook in their sockets; her cheeks pushed backward in a grimace; a shiver began to crawl over her chest and arms. And-

A hand on her shoulder, wishing to still whatever was creeping up from the back of her consciousness.

"Calm down, my girl." A soothing tone, like a father finding his child scared of midnight lightning making noise and shadows turn into monsters. "Calm down."

Finally hearing her own breath and how frantic it had become without her noticing, Francine tensed as she felt this pressure next to her neck. But then as it remained motionless, so began she. The muscle strain faded and allowed her to sense the tranquility of his touch, how firm and yet how delicate it seemed to take care for the person underneath his fingertips.

Her attention trailed from herself to his hand, and then it traced up his arm until it met his pensive face, glittering eyes in the hazy light.

Joey needn't command with his voice what his expression already did, and so the woman took one deep breath and then another, waiting for him to respond.

What came was maybe something she had wanted to avoid all along.

"Now I don't want you to fret over things we can't understand. It won't do you any good- not at all."

A pause, but only one to lend him time to form words for the things that had plagued him.

"The ink demon is...inexplicable." The last few syllables were sighed, steeped with decades of experience. "Believe me, I have tried for longer than you could know to understand him- hoping, praying that if I did-…I can force him to release us."

No, that look upon him did not change. These statements served as more than words of comfort for a woman finding no fruits for her labor; he really meant this.

And for someone that up until now wanted to know everything- even if it meant chasing powers unfathomable- it terrified her.

More so than the demon himself in this second of her life- hearing that maybe she could never grasp what it meant to be alive here, with both his permission and his taunting.

But of course, she began to know something else- that this very thing was what the spirit before her had spent his whole perdition trying to accept.

And so this being wise in his punishment's ways now didn't look _at_ his most recent victim but _through_ her, disturbed with things unspeakable unless he was given the same number of years to say them as were taken.

Joey was deceptive in how he described the demon. To knowingly not understand is also a form of understanding.

And so he comprehended, but could not change a thing.

 _Not like this._

"I...ask you not to fret over these things, Frankie. I know it's certainly difficult not to ponder, but...please, trust me. It grows... _wearisome."_

Somehow without taking another step, he was closer to her. A gloss fell over the whites of his eyes- a soundless, desperate kind of begging that he tried to make her see.

"And I don't want that for you."

"But-..." she stuttered, wide-eyed herself.

"Frankie, the demon…has been kind to you-... it sounds like," he interrupted. Yet another one of those flickers over her, one that Francine recognized as one of complete disbelief in how she existed before him; it was oh so familiar. "...Impossibly so. And so has my-... _his_ studio, in your presence."

And then Joey's eyes crinkled with a slight shake of the head, never once straying from his locked gaze upon her.

Upon all that she meant, represented to him.

It was so very important.

"...That's the most hope...I've felt in a long time. That things are shifting and all we can do is wait for this change to come. The fact that you've not only broken into my seal but are... _allowed_ to see me now with ease speaks volumes alone."

Francine was sure he could feel the tremble in her jaw as one of his hands moved to touch the underneath of it, not in a hushing clasp but a…dare she say… _loving_ reminder that she was here before him.

Like a parent loves a child.

But of course.

Joey would always be a father first and foremost, in his last life and then the next.

Especially as he was forced to watch her wither away with each horror of the studio, much like the flowers had upon his desk. So difficult to think about-…twisted like a knife into his heart so much…

But, he believed, that unlike them she was still green with chance and youth. She still had time, he could still have hope-

"Until we leave this place...you can come to me. I shouldn't have expected you to keep your discoveries all to yourself, knowing there's a man out there that is to blame for everything, but..."

Now she could feel _his_ tremble through the touch of his hand.

"...Please...come to me if these thoughts trouble you again," Joey pleaded breathlessly, "You shouldn't be alone with them. They'll only eat you up." Spoken in nearly a whisper, undoubtedly born through his own extensive history of hurting his own feelings over and over and over by looking for what could not be found, a self-inflicted torture.

And then he confirmed as much:

"I would know."

And even in all his tenderness, Francine could not move. She couldn't hold him back, nor in any way return his touch.

"Joey…" No, she couldn't even return his words.

To be raw with all he had felt since he cursed fate itself was enough to stun anyone besides he whom had grown accustomed to live alongside it- thanks only to a forced custody of stolen time.

This proposal- no, this _promise_ spoke with striking precision to everything Francine ever wanted from others here. It was as if he had known her far longer than she had known him, even if this also asked her to try to give up what so far drove her to keep going, to keep from letting the gloom of the ink take her too.

And so she was unprepared to know how to welcome it.

"I don't deserve any kindness-" Joey began in her place as she left the air empty, "-None at all- but-...I am here if you need me, since the studio so allows-"

One last and most meaningful second of time spent on hesitation.

"-...If...you...even want to be in my presence," he finished, uncertainty breaking his sentences to pieces.

And so the choice was hers to make. To decline his comradery- and it would have been justified- or embrace it amid a universe that could never understand them both.

But she had decided a long time ago, didn't she? Even if she and him had thought so differently about what to do with shattered destiny.

"…Of course."

But then acceptance necessitated sincerity.

"Thank you," Francine could barely murmur, pitch high and soft with benevolence unexpected as she felt her chin move ever so slightly into his palm with each spoken word.

And she was close enough this time to see exactly how every bit of his face changed with a growing smile, her own words used to reflect a different but equally profound purpose:

"Of course."


	60. Lure and Lull

**60- Lure and Lull**

" _The Lord has made everything for its purpose, even the wicked for the day of trouble."_ – Proverbs 16:4

* * *

Let's leave Francine behind for a bit- at least as we see her now, her soul caressed in the hands of a father eternal. Let's release their conflicting emotions as both found peace and upset; the young woman scared to contemplate a life without chasing all she did not know and yet finding comfort with the promise of someone who would not only always care for her but promised to _listen_ to her calls for comradery- the fulfillment of her search for others in order to find solace for herself in their arms; the ancient man so terribly afraid of being known at all, and yet rediscovering the absolute _joy_ of speaking to someone again- to not only witness but interact with so the other person may feel all the warmth in his heart.

And how did Joey believe he had so much warmth left to give, locking it away between his lungs like holding his breath for far too long.

Amazing, isn't it? That Joey was fearful to be close and Francine was fearful to let go, and yet they began to find how relieving it was to allow.

How…simple it was to let a phobia take you until it becomes something good.

But that's not what Sammy was thinking about when Francine left him alone his own fears. It had begun when she returned from retrieving the photo- no. Even before then. Maybe when she had first been put into his custody.

What his contradictory feelings were resided within his budding acknowledgement of life outside his personal hell; that was the good part.

It was also the bad.

The photo- those faces. The glasses…

 _His_ face.

That thing he found while wandering on his own as Francine did the same looked like those on the bridge of that _human_ man's nose in the black and white picture. When he recalled this image- gone but not forgotten- he didn't know who it was barely smiling back at him- he only guessed, only hoped that it was he.

Maybe hoped it wasn't, too.

But as he sat in his sanctuary shortly after his companion escaped it to find rest, he couldn't doubt something else that made that photo undeniable.

Between glossy fingers careful not to stain broken lenses any further, two ovals of glass were held up towards the ceiling, being played with ever so delicately to observe how light shifted across the clear surface and the metallic frames with every movement of his knuckles.

These- something even deeper inside than his own gut was yelling at him- were _his._

And for these to be his could very well mean that that man could be his too.

Along with doubts about God, the omnipotence he entrusted so unquestioningly that he never looked for his past until Francine shoved it into his face?

Well that was simply unbearable to sit alone with.

And now he was beginning to remember why Francine never seemed to keep still; it was a familiar pain that he had shoved aside, to be uncomfortable with your own thoughts in a quiet room.

Sammy should have known from all the years before her what it was like to be alone with things you don't want to see. Fear was consuming him, and it made him restless.

And all he could think to do to quiet dark ideas were to delve deeper until the voice of someone who knew could silence all the others who merely begged.

Sammy didn't know if he really wanted to have known her before. But all the same, he journeyed with purpose back to the last place he'd see Francine…

Only for her to be there waiting for him, in the arms of an angel.

The prophet froze where he stood, legs and arms outstretched side to side and his shoulders rising and falling in panic. It was a response so very active- so very upset- that served as a great contrast to what was before him.

In this small chamber was a couch placed the wall, with the visage of the dancing demon's opposition tinging every corner of the room with her aura. One was propped up tall as a cutout, full stance watching over the others. And as Sammy's painted eyes fell upon Francine, he saw she was guarded with yet two more of the same being.

And only one was a doll.

He only caught a split second of the end of the angel's moment of reprieve- that instant where her one perfect eye was nearly closed shut, either a black iris or a pupil looking aimlessly forward above slightly parted, torn lips. She didn't hide it in time for him not to see, but all the same it was so quick how her head twisted and gaze snapped to lock onto him- like she was a lioness and he was prey wandering into her den.

And maybe he was.

But all the same, Alice knew without even looking to the mortal at her side to know this wasn't the place to maim.

That would be somewhere else.

And so as Sammy stood there, silent with shock, Alice Angel put a single finger to her lips to signal he remain silent around her sleeping cherub…or else.

And maybe it was the stun of the whole scene. Maybe it was seeing his fellow disciple finally, finally at rest- her eyes closed shut and hair swooping messily around her in this suspension of consciousness- her fists gently closed shut and folded over her stomach and chest…

Maybe it was that he promised he would trust her.

And so she would have to trust him in unwitting return as the spider lured the prophet into her web right in front of her nose. He had only come to see one of these women, but it seemed to follow at Francine's heels with an inevitable destiny…but that would not stop him from trying to find that which was stolen from him, even if it the answers could lie with the creature that hated him most.

One last glance back at the sleeping woman before Sammy allowed Alice to lead him away, a conversation to be had outside of the reaches of innocent ears.

He had sins to answer for before Alice would tell him a thing about who he used to be, and so Francine would then be left on her own to choose Joey's abyss over an empty room.


	61. Gone but Not Forgotten

**61- Gone but Not Forgotten**

" _Cast your burden on the Lord, and he will sustain you; he will never permit the righteous to be moved. But you, O God, will cast them down into the pit of destruction; men of blood and treachery shall not live out half their days. But I will trust in you."_ – Psalm 55:22-23

* * *

And away they went, deeper and deeper into the darkest lair of angels, untouched by heaven's light above the studio. Sammy had so very much locked inside his chest, and it all felt like it simply wanted to break out- to tear a hole right through his liquid ribcage to shoot out at the person in front of him.

It was a rageful desire, but surprisingly not to direct violence towards the angel herself.

…Although she certainly had much in mind for him, slithering all the way down into her domain as if there wouldn't be consequences. As if there would be nothing to say about him past, present, and future that made her _sick._ And even though it was still unfathomable why, precisely, Alice despised Sammy besides in how his position as prophet put them in opposition- a literal demon versus angel scenario where he was with the latter-…Sammy knew something else.

Sammy knew not what he was hated for, but that there was certainly something still lingering from all the way back- when their bodies flowed with blood instead of ink- that she seemed to cling to but he in lost memory could not.

And as Alice was the only person he had identified to keep this sacred yet utterly cursed knowledge of what their lives were like before all this, she too was the only one to ask to bestow it upon him.

And so he had correctly anticipated her wrath as payment in return.

"Do you REALLY think you can come into MY place, into MY domain and look me in the face like you're so _innocent?!"_

Far, far out of the earshot of a woman she had grown to pain for, Alice deemed it more than just appropriate to not hold back.

No. It was _necessary._

 _Sammy was simply deserving of whatever came his way._

Her fist pounded against the wall of the elevator as it continued to carry them down and away from the soul they cared about in such different yet reminiscent ways. The sound echoed up and up and up, but Francine would never hear it.

Maybe she was already gone, but Sammy wasn't aware of her new comradery; he only felt the noise of Alice Angel's rage vibrate into his gut and refused as best as he could muster its sick feeling.

The shadows of the bars crossed over their faces- Alice's scarred with near perfection and Sammy's mask tarnished with devotion.

Both held the markings of longing for what they may never have, and so encapsulated complete and utter terror that made Alice scream and Sammy silent.

"Worshiping the _ink demon!"_ The most cutting of scowls carved into her face, pinching her one true eye underneath with disgust. She might as well have been spitting at him. But then somehow…a look of total abhorrence became something even more offended.

"It was one thing for you to make up a whole damn religion just to make yourself feel better, putting trust in the last thing you should," she hissed quietly, shadow crawling over both the natural and unnatural curves and indents of her body, "It was pointless to think anyone else to fall for it, and so I. Let. It. Go."

Even closer. He could see the torn side of her face twitch as muscles still in slices did their best to abide by the pull of her emotion, her fury.

" _But then you took her with you."_

An opportune time for the elevator to creak to a halt. Instead of maybe following an instinct of unforgiving viciousness, she turned on her heel with a shake of the head and what could only be described as the most seething of groans and stomped out of the now open door.

A hand raised above her shoulder with one finger curling and uncurling, less of a beckon he follow and more of a threat that he shouldn't even imagine what'd happen if he didn't.

And against every instinct of his own, so he abided.

Silence. For a long, long time only the sound of their feet as they moved forward, and as they did, Sammy remembered that there was more reason than simply Alice that he never journeyed down to Heavenly Toys. It was somehow hollower, more haunted than every other corner of the studio.

And God, he once sent Francine here to find his own identity in his place.

But in poetic justice, now it was his turn to find the scraps still left behind, presumably in the seraph's ink-gloved hands.

The deeper she lured him to somewhere more fitting to contain her wrath, the more he accepted what he had braced for- that he was helpless. He gave a noiseless prayer of thanks that at least his horrid body was good for hiding the involuntary expressions of fear.

Not that she was looking back at him anyway.

But suddenly, Sammy felt panic grip onto him instead of measly dismay as they drifted down and down to hell knows where. The silence- her silence- he couldn't stand it anymore; something about what she had said perplexed him in a way unexpected, and finally…he couldn't leave it be.

" _You_ …care about my friend?"

And she stopped in place so fast that he couldn't prevent an inevitable fumbling into her backside. A yelp- not from her throat but his. Legs immediately stumbled backwards- far further than he needed to in order to provide her space, and arms flinched and outstretched side to side.

But Alice didn't attack in retaliation, as was expected. She only stood frozen, only showing the back of her hair and the organic ornaments attached to her skull. It was almost as if she didn't feel his touch.

No, what he said had clasped at her heart instead until it numbed everything else.

"…Of course I do."

A breath of quiet, only the machines that built these walls up and over them spoke in their place. The gloss of her fingers adjusted as clenching moved the dim lights across their shape.

" _Someone has to."_

And with that, the angel continued to trudge ahead through the sharp, metallic tunnel towards her haven, never once looking back to he that questioned if she had a heart not in her hand but her chest.

"And don't dare call her your _friend."_

A giant tangle of feelings and thoughts Sammy was left to trek through lest he be left in her dust. First was the confirmation of what he already knew- that Alice hated him for his trust in the demon. But what else was there?! Who else was there to trust, who else was omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent? Those were the traits of a _god,_ and for the prophet, it was undeniable that he should be treated as such.

But now…he was beginning to grasp why someone should fear those things not in worship but in dread.

And that collided with the seraph's second listing of his sin- that Sammy pulled a spotless lamb into the endless, staining sorrow of his oil-like palms and leaking mouth, reaching and speaking beliefs to ears looking for something to listen to besides the siren call of endless anguish.

And as much as he pushed such a terror away, he couldn't stop the trepidation of if this was his blessing to Francine or the spreading of a curse. But-

He didn't know it, but the room they entered next would coincide with his words so, so terribly, only coming as a counter in his surprise at the immortal's shreds of humanity.

"I thought…you hated him. That man from before."

Now this was enough to compel Alice finally turn to face him, lined with the radiance of a room half empty with mechanical beds for cartoon corpses, littered absolutely everywhere that a rickety platform above a black lake would allow.

The look about her told Sammy before her voice did that he had made a mistake.

" _HENRY_ came for trouble," the angel retorted, that grimace curving into a sneer of justification. Of what, Sammy could only guess. _"HE_ succeeded in WHATEVER goal he had to take _each and every BORIS FROM ME!"_

Her shout crescendoed into a shriek as the betrayed woman tried to explain not just to Sammy but herself how the hatred for one person of flesh tried but could not be passed onto another- for that was surely what the prophet accused her of; he was in disbelief that the sins of one mortal man was not painted upon another mortal woman with the brush of Alice's timeless disdain.

The turn of her gaze towards that closest, most hauntingly unoccupied of these vertical beds of metal sheets was so quick that some of the heavenly monster's untied hair got caught on the horn emerging through it. A single eye flickered in its socket, and the one that was empty somehow seemed to be shaped with hurt too. A rage for the ink demon's loyal disciple was so, betrayingly easy to transform into lamentation.

It wasn't only Sammy she couldn't forgive, after all. There was so very much about this world that took away just to watch her try to take it back, like teasing a cat with a toy mouse it'll never catch.

Again and again since Henry left not just with his own body but with every remnant- every piece of evidence that a living Boris had ever existed among them…Alice had to face this chamber alone. It's tall, mocking girth for the emptiness it now contained, now housing only the cadavers of the Butcher Gang.

It was like…each wolf had simply melted away.

But when someone melted away here, they normally came back some way or another; that was the curse of the ink- that no matter how many times one died, it could never put the soul at rest. And in all the decades since Joey's long lost son returned to find what was left of his father, no soul drowned in the puddles emerged in the form of a canine ever, ever again.

And since, Alice had hoped, tried, and prayed for a way to complete her body without the ones that seemed to do so best- only for it to fall apart until all that was left to look at was perfection in sight but out of reach for as long as she could know.

Unlike Sammy, she never believed that there was anything left for her on the outside, and so to be an angel was the best she could manage if she couldn't be Susie ever again.

But thanks to _HIM…_ it grew to be more and more possible that not even _that_ was feasible in a world made to give dreams their physical form.

Sammy saw Alice's fingers grip the upright surgical table that once served as a symbol of her pride, of her accomplishment in becoming _someone_ once more- something that set her apart from the rest. Everyone else- even and especially the pathetic man before her now- had ever put destiny in their own hands. They only waited. They only whined.

Unlike her, they didn't _do._

But now with no corpse under the table's straps, its emptiness drifted until it filled the lungs she had but seemed not to need, and the expression upon her dropped along with the stare of her eyes. It was all so overwhelming- all so _terrible_ to think about- and yet…-

"She…never came to hurt me," Alice muttered with unfathomable softness, gaze unfocused as much as her destiny was without the tools to complete it. "… _Francine-"_ She spoke her name in direct, spiteful contrast to that of the one who intruded long ago. "-…Never came to hurt anyone. _She came to find someone."_

And the scorned angel seemed to find herself again, picking herself back up to pierce Sammy with a black eye and a black hole, crossed arms and frowning lips.

"How cruel of fate that she find _you."_

And as much as he wanted to argue to the face glaring through him, judging everything that made Sammy who he was, what kept him alive…no.

He couldn't.

It would have been better if Francine never found any of them at all.

But Alice mistook this quiet as a refusal to acknowledge his own misdeeds, and so the seraph moved on to topics maybe not less personal but still less vulnerable to her shaken soul.

"You came down with me without putting up a fight- not even a whimper," she observed, dark pupil looking over him- the only part of her moving as they stood at the entry of her laboratory. "So you didn't arrive just to take her from me, after all." A squint- a suspicious one. "Why then?"

Something tingled along with Sammy's racing pulse, agitating every inch until he could swear his body wasn't quivering but rather rippling like waves across water. This was it. This was why he was here. And suddenly- this was everything.

And having no idea how to even begin, all Sammy could figure to do was reach into his pocket and share what he had found. And suddenly, everything about Alice's demeanor changed. Every opening of her face widened in amazement; a gasp stilled the air; shoulders flinched and tightened, a hand coming over her lips in dawning amazement.

Even broken, even disfigured and bent what would normally be beyond recognition…Alice still knew almost a century since she saw them last that those were the glasses of good ol' Sammy Lawrence, music director of the fantastical and phantasmal Joey Drew Studios.

And that twisted her stomach until words came out like vomit.


	62. For Her Sake

**62- For Her Sake**

" _And out of the ground the Lord God made to spring up every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food. The tree of life was in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil."_ – Genesis 2:9

* * *

She felt so…

 _Comfortable._

With her eyes closed and an inexplicable warmth wrapped around her body, Francine only had sensation to describe what she felt now. Do you know that sort of…flutter in your heart where for the first time in a long time…everything seems okay? The way that serenity spreads through your veins until it feels like everywhere you go is walking on a cloud?

Indeed, despite her fears…despite facing this big, inky unknown with encouragement to only accept it rather than engage it, question it-…Francine now finally…finally…

Felt like everything was somehow, someway, going to be okay, just as she had asked for from a god above before chasing omniscience itself to find it.

It was here all along, it seemed.

Even if they all were so different- even so _frustrating_ about it…as she let rest sweep over her until her skin was numb with peace, it dawned upon her like the sun beginning to peak over the horizon that maybe, just maybe…

Everyone she met here really did care about her in one way or another.

And it was likely she didn't know exactly how much she meant to them to drive shadow's citizens to do so.

To Sammy, she was a gift. Even in his growing doubts of purpose in perdition, he no longer questioned hers. She was there by the demon's grace and even if he was no longer so sure about his lord's wishes and intentions, hers were always clear: that he was blessed with her human companionship, and in turn it was his sacrifice to walk alongside and ensure she was as happy as can be.

Even if he couldn't be, and so he let her chase that which he feared most.

To Alice, she was a reminder- a reflection in a living mirror of all she once had, all she wanted to make for herself again. She had only seen the mortal smile so, so briefly compared to all the time spent alone, and yet it was enough to burn her image into the angel's mind. And if Alice couldn't ever again _truly_ have the pristine humanity the woman felt not awarded but burdened with…

Then she wouldn't take it for granted ever again, whether or not it belonged to her.

And to even poor, unsettled Norman, the man with so little left of him that one had to investigate to find clues he was ever a person at all- she was a pleasure. And indeed, he wasa personthen and still was _now,_ and so deep down the old man still carried that heavy weight somewhere in a heart buried beneath ink, reels, and tangled wires- the load that came with care's obligations. But he only felt and could not comprehend, so it left him desperate in action. By far the projectionist scared her the most, and yet…

Even he that grasped little both in and around him not only could do so physically but spiritually to appreciate the woman unlike anything he'd ever seen.

These were all things Joey Drew let toss and turn in his mind as he saw his newest victim curled up in the best chair of an office he used to be proud to call his own. They cared about her. They all did. In all the years they were trapped together, it took such little time to find her important.

This child was important because even if she could deem each and every being of ink a monster, she no longer would. She didn't think herself better and never once had since she stepped foot in his studio. Everyone was her equal, and not even a thousand miles of disconnect between what those of the puddles experienced and what she of daylight did could stop her from finding a way to empathize, refuse to hate.

And so it was natural that souls so thirsty for love would love back, whether or not they consciously wanted to.

And this…oh _this…_ was both the greatest blessing and worst curse to settle in the air of Joey Drew Studios. And he knew it.

He knew it very well.

The keeper of dreams come alive quietly took a step closer to the woman that disrupted a world defined by this word, his shadow falling over her face, lap, and gently closed fists as he allowed her any comfort he could possibly give. It was so little- merely a _chair_ for her to sleep in- but it was the most he had, at least right now.

And it shook him to his core. It scared him beyond belief that here she was- here she was in the heart of the worst ring of hell, the most agonizing of destinies…practically falling right into his lap, he who created it all.

It was a responsibility he didn't take lightly.

Couldn't afford to.

So many people were at stake- not just her but every single other that he had ever taken from the life they deserved. And so he resolved this exact moment to not allow the studio to do to her what it had done to Henry, no matter what that entailed. He'd give everything he hadn't before for his son to ensure that not only she was safe but that their cage would remain so as well.

Joey was such a loving man, and God bless him that love was maybe the only thing that kept the studio from imploding, tearing itself and all inside a part…

Like it tried to the last time someone as human as Francine had paid this old man a visit.

This was why love was the most wonderful, dangerous thing of all, and this time around…Joey resolved to embrace it with the firm hold of wisdom of his past mistakes than let passions crash around. He couldn't let that happen again. Not ever, ever again.

Francine dreamt someone gently brushed the hair off her forehead and whispered "I'll do whatever it takes. I promise you that. For your sake, I'll do it all."

* * *

"I just can't believe it."

Alice looked over the lake of oil encompassing her morbid laboratory, folding her arms and leaning her spine onto the entryway's empty operating table.

"Must be nearly eighty, ninety years and you never once asked yourself who we used to be." She drawled her words out in a hushed, contemplative voice dripping with both fascination and disdain for the man by her side- the man she used to have the naivety to call a comrade.

As far as Alice was concerned, he was cruel even before his humanity was taken away, and so her tone reflected such.

"If you remembered, I can't be so sure you'd want it back."

Of course, she was wrong. Of course nothing could be worse than how they lived now. But of course, Sammy didn't know better, and so this terrified him.

"W-what…" Could he ask this? All these years- could he even?

He could.

"What…was it like?"

Her gaze narrowed, almost a slit of an eye staring down the man standing by her side- the man she used to think would stand by her forever so, long ago. Her arms adjusted just a touch more, a bit more into herself as no one would ever be there to hold her again.

Judging, scrutinizing that which hadn't changed since someone did last.

Sammy gripped the table behind him, downward stretched arms and palms in the same direction. He was judging her at the same time as she did him, and there was something…unlike what he'd ever seen before. So much time trapped in the same building and yet they were together so little, almost like the most antagonistic form of neighbors in an apartment complex or former childhood best friends that lived in the same city and yet refused to speak. They both thought they knew each other far too well, and so they chose not to know each other at all.

"Tell me…" Alice began, still staring him down despite all but her black iris facing the rickety gateway to heaven, "…How can you miss something you don't even know?"

And she said this so gently with hate because she knew better. She knew who she was and what she had. And she would miss it…and yet was the only one she could identify to have enough memory- unlike Sammy- or sense- unlike Norman- to recognize where she was now in contrast to who she was then…and be fully and _justifiably_ unsatisfied.

Besides Francine, of course, and maybe that's why Alice appreciated her no matter how much the seraph tried to shake off a guardian's duties.

Sammy could only stare back, stunned by her words. That was her intent, and so she then looked up ahead, seeing her past in the reflections of an inky sea.

" _Do you know what it's like to be alone with it?"_

Different. This was…different. More like a scared child than the woman this prophet was so, so afraid of. In all his years, he was finally relearning that even the one he considered most evil in this world of sin had her own fears and feelings to attend to. He had no opportunity to respond, however, as Alice was not done uncovering what no one had ever asked to see until he and his disciple one after the other.

" _Do you know what it's like to be alone with everything you ever were and had, twisted in right front of you so it's barely recognizable but still just familiar enough to torture you if you stare back for too long?"_

As Sammy bent at his waist even further…no…it was unbelievable.

She was shaking.

Indeed, that grip on herself was more of a desperate hold to keep herself from melting away than anything else, and now even the perfect half of her mouth had lips parted to show gritting teeth.

"I wish I was like you Sammy."

He gasped.

"… _I wish I didn't remember,"_ she said about as quietly anyone ever could.

And so the questioning preacher was beside himself, disbelieving that this hellish angel was more of a person like he than he had dared to imagine, how that ached in his chest alongside the already stinging doubts he had about the nature of his god. The dynamic he believed-…knew to be true- it had always made him think that the person who opposed the studio's benevolent lord must be inherently and only malevolent. Good and evil- black and white.

But maybe even though cartoons were that easy to distinguish, it wasn't so for those made in their image.

And so it was both bizarre and unexpected for him to witness her deconstruction not only in hopes for her to speak his own as well, but…

…Because the reasons she had given him were things worth caring for.

But finally, finally, something in her was gratified- or maybe just patched up rather than fully healed, like sticking your thumb in a dam's leak just long enough for it not to flood. She would remove it, but not here, not with he, and maybe not for a very, very long time.

He saw her neck rotate until the horns, crooked halo, and shredded face were parallel with Sammy's second smile. An angel in the making and the devil's mouthpiece for once opposing each other not in battle but in assistance.

"You…were Sammy Lawrence, music director of Joey Drew Studios. The most talented musician I have ever met, and someone I used to have the gall to call my friend. I will never forgive you, not for that life and not for this one, but…for not your sake…not for mine…but for the girl who latches to you just in hope to keep her spirit alive where she sees so many at every turn rotting and dead…I'll tell you exactly the kind of man you used to be."

And then Susie Campbell, the one destined to be Joey's angel, had her final say to the man that gave her a shoulder to cry on when no one saw her struggle but he, the man that along with Mr. Drew rose her far above the earth and right to the stars to make her believe she was everything she wanted and more, and the man that took it all from under her feet just to watch her crash down from heaven's heights.

And then Sammy Lawrence began to understand what Susie meant when she said she wished to forget it all just as he did.


	63. Return

**63- Return**

" _And I will give this people favor in the sight of the Egyptians; and when you go, you shall not go empty…"_ – Exodus 3:21

* * *

It must have been a dream.

The warmth that enveloped her swaddled and rocked until she fell asleep, but when she awoke? It was neither in Joey's arms nor the arms of his chair that she was left among. No, there were no arms of any kind at all.

Except maybe the invisible ones of the embrace of complete and utter mystery.

She stirred, a grumble in her throat. Francine felt well rested for what was certainly the first time since she had begun to live with paper and ink. Grateful. Despite her reservations, she was…grateful to Joey for that- for what seemed to be sincere care for her, genuine regret for what he took away.

Just like Joey, how bittersweet this was for her to know.

And that's why she didn't notice what was different for a while. She was caught up- perplexed with how Mr. Drew could find it in his heart to be so sympathetic even when she was the very first he had seen and spoken to ever since he did this to them all. Amazing, even, that this… _care_ was what was left with him after all this time, when merely some weeks had left Francine fighting day after day to not be bitter.

And that's why even though something in her gut disagreed, Francine was allowing herself to let his desires echo through her heart over and over. He wanted to be alone, unknown to everyone he could keep at bay. He wanted her to stop chasing what she did not comprehend. But he seemed to put both of these wants aside, just for one reason and one reason alone-

His most recent desire of her was for her to seek him out to prevent so that this woman would be alone with her fears not a second more. Not if he could help it.

And that…that was the most that anyone could offer, no matter what lifetime she picked.

She supposed that's why she…was so unquestioning of his attentiveness, of his gentle nature and his acceptance of what must have been the worst fate of all. A villain she couldn't paint her imprisoner to be, even if it could make her more comfortable, her circumstances more conquerable. And even as she didn't know necessarily… _how_ she'd ever find him again, as the studio chose that for her rather than she…- she knew she'd take the opportunity once more. So good to see someone human. So good to be listened to rather than interrogated.

And just as she had begun to forget that others cared about her too even in their harassment, she finally noticed.

This wasn't his office. This wasn't the angel's path. This wasn't even any random place she had been dumped in, as if a portal deemed her time with Joey done and spat her out to filthy halls.

No, this was _purposeful._

As she lifted herself up from a lay upon the gurney, she heard the _tick!_ of that never ceasing, mocking Bendy clock. She saw a hammock, just behind all the things she clung to so dearly and thought were lost yet once more and for good.

Francine had woken up inside the safe house, the very same place she never expected to be able to enter ever again just a few days before. So in the most stomach churning mixture of gratitude, awe, and dread, she unlocked the door and left to find her roommate, unsure what lie to make up to explain this revelation.

Joey was right. The studio _was_ kind to her…unusually kind. Just like an old man that somehow wanted everything and nothing to do with his own sins. What a precarious place for her new home to be, and she began to know this just as he did. Something in the walls could _feel_ \- could _love_ her, even, or at least feel sorry enough to give her back what she had missed so very much.

Something could care for her but refuse to let her go, and that was the most terrifying thing of all.


	64. Opposition

**64- Opposition**

" _For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart." –_ Hebrews 4:12

* * *

Sometimes in life there comes a time where things split- where this is a special emphasis on the way in which things separate, unite, melt together, and drift away. There's no particular order to it- no particular fashion to expect- and so recognizing certain elements that encompass our existence becomes…fearful.

Give us a sense of danger, even.

And danger can be both painfully frightening and oh, so invigorating. Oftentimes both. Peril is stress, but peril is also the way in which we prove ourselves capable and how we find steadier ground- and so like the eye of the storm, there can be peace amid chaos, feelings among feelings both fighting and coexisting in a contradiction that only human hearts have managed to endure.

This is certainly how the two pairs of men and women felt after speaking to one another. There was a set that used to be friends- one of whom that had remembered the whole time this bitterness of what she lost and the unbearable sight of watching her counterpart melt into someone she could recognize and yet could not. And the other of these two finally could wonder no longer tailor a theory to suit his needs why Alice hated him- and the horror that she despised not only who he became but who he used to be, who he spent his many years trying to be again. Absolutely stabbing was the sting of being told right from the mouth he claimed evil that maybe it wasn't she that was so but he.

And to a man that already loathed himself, such a wound was irreversible, no matter how much he would try to deny it. And to connect the screams of the woman in his mind- the one he desperately reached for in what he assumed to be his last moments of mortality- to the angel before him now? How horribly intimate in the worst possible way. What was he left to do with the pieces broken yet again in the palms of his aching hands? What was he meant to believe when constructs made to comfort were shattered before his very eyes?

What was he doing to tell the one he had pulled headfirst into his faith, and what would their god see in him now?

But there was another set too- a couple as old and young as time frightened to see not that they used to be friends but that they _could_ be friends. The man that regretted it all was helpless to watch her come closer and closer until all he could do was approach her back. He wanted to- oh how badly did he want to- but he knew that the girl couldn't be near unless there was the greatest of concentration, the most aware of attentiveness. It was the sharpest sort of tenderness, the most dutiful of devotions.

And she shouldn't have wanted to see him, she thought, and yet here she was, over and over, not disgusted by his presence but…softened by it. There was something about him, almost like a mirror of what she could be- of what she might become if she remained in the studio's vile cloud of misery for much longer. Lonely. Isolated. Despondent and unimaginably, eternally suffering.

Joey in his ink stained clothes and with his tired, bright eyes was proof that a body of flesh wouldn't save her from a destiny such as his. The curse took and took away, and she was beginning to see what everyone else did- that she had the most to take. This- this was the very reason she wanted to fight to know the place that took her, its history, its truths, and its demons. But she couldn't deny the draw of his fatherly touch, his whispers not to worry, the fear he tried to hold still but still managed to shake his eyes. He had seen everything she had not, and it was so _very_ much.

This is how every emotion swirled, some mixing, and some flowing one over the other like water and oil. But they all still exist in the same place- in this same universe of shunned empathy and buried memories wished to be forgotten or found. A waltz of opposing beliefs, a parallel of different wisdoms finding they could intertwine their fingers and try to make some sense out of nonsense.

Terrifying.

But it was all worth it.

It had to be, if this is what their hearts really wanted, if this is where faith let them fall.

But heaven knows what that would mean for everyone else.


	65. Sammy's Song

**65- Sammy's Song**

" _And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing."_ – 1 Corinthians 13:2

* * *

"Prophet" is not a title without a past. He stumbled into faith and there he would remain, both a blessing and a curse to a man with nothing left but a trapped soul and a heart that begged for what he once had.

To be a prophet was to be the consolation he needed most in a position no human being was ever designed to endure- to be forced to live through an extended death and feel the suspension of blood in its veins and breath merely drift out of lungs as if the body was held still but the world moved on without him.

That's how it felt for Sammy to die.

He heard Susie scream. As the very same person's recollection swarmed his ears today and forced him to listen, he could finally see it in all its horrific clarity; like frozen pictures and slowing film, he could almost reach out and touch what he remembered. Before him was a young lady with pale skin, dark lips, and wide, wide eyes. He could see the glitter of ink reflect in them as the summoned rush of shadows rose as a tidal wave from behind him, gushing past his waist and flying in droplets onto her skin and clothes in the brief half-second before it ate them alive. Then his dark skin became darker, and everything became nothing.

From the innocent visage of the imaginary come to life burst forth its personification of immortality through animation and ink. From the posters and cutouts and sketches of Bendy gushed the black flood that would choke out everything but the very core of each employee or visitor's being. From the face of what he would accept as his lord came that which would claim him forevermore.

And it rose to the ceiling until he couldn't hear, see, or feel anything but the cold of void and endless eternity seep through his skin like water through paper towel. It covered his shape until it became his shape, a snap at the edges of his body as the ink converged into itself and cocooned him until liquification. And from the form of a man this black began to lax, smooth, and then melt away into the rest that had done the same as he.

From the many bodies of men came the massive puddles of souls- the place, person, and thing he would know far too intimately for far too long.

Felt? Did he feel? He did but he…didn't. To be numb would in itself be a sensation, and that's not what this seemed to be.

Somehow he felt pure nothingness, and it drifted in and out of him like he was a spec of sand in the riptides of an ocean.

He did not comprehend yet that it was not that he was surrounded by ink but that he had merely become it.

And so had everyone else. He could feel them- he could hear them. Voices, voices, voices. Everywhere. How close? Close. How far? Far. Endless like the universe was gone and filled to the brim with only the sounds of what it used to have. It was all within reach- all touching him, smothering him- and yet he couldn't touch it at all.

A gaping breath and a splash. He felt a hard surface underneath a slam of his palm- wood- and suddenly all the weight and weightlessness left him from the torso up. He didn't realize what he was doing, but he did all the same; Sammy dragged himself out of the puddles. He couldn't feel his legs.

For the longest time, he saw nothing. He sensed something different- not the same sensation that wrapped around and through him- but it was almost somehow worse. _Splash, splash, splash._ It fell in the rhythm that was only intended for his walking feet, but it was that of his arms, hands, and elbows.

And then he began to see- blurs, like looking through the porthole of a ship through misty glass in the early morning. It was so damn dark. Where was he? Where was he? Where was he?

And as he began to focus on the present, he didn't notice the memories of his past slipping away.

Somehow, just for the briefest second- he began to stand. A surface came to his right side and he slammed into it, exhausted and his new body ready to give up so soon after it was born. Eyelids no longer needed closed, and a mouth carved from tangible emptiness heaved a breath that shouldn't have existed.

Spinning. Nothing stayed still. Sammy heard himself groan and clutch desperately at the thin lines between the boards at his side, trying to keep balance. Was it his new legs giving way or the room itself that was moving? He'd never know.

Posters- already forgetting that they were simply advertisements for the cartoon he composed for. He may have never known if what came next was hallucination, reality, or right in between: prophecy.

The pictures of dancing demons- the very ones that leaked the sea that swallowed him before- crawled out of their papers and drifted to the floor, smoky like fog with no firm body, staining a trail from the wall to the floor and towards where he stood like ink droplets guided through a brush's cleansing water.

Just as the faceless faces reached for him, black washed over his sight and they were gone.

He'd only know what it was like to see the hand in front of him, shiny sludge that twitched just as he did. Even with his failing sight, a few seconds of ponderance left the impossible true.

Sammy screamed.

And something heard him.

 **Drip.**

Liquid has swished in his ears for a second of forever- a substance beyond mortal comprehension and existence. But somehow this- this was different.

 **Drip.**

His vision blurred even more, like grey raindrops on a car's windshield.

He didn't like it.

 **Drip.**

 **Drip.**

 **Drip.**

He threw himself off the edge of his vertical bed, and he tried to ignore the sound of each yelp, each cry escaping his throat as attempts to run became stumbling, and then as stumbling became falling.

But he was caught. And that was the first time the prophet met his god.

Through the dark edges of his vision, a smile- a horrid, wide smile. Stretched beyond human capability. The same blood as that which formed his body dripped onto his face- into his mouth until he sputtered coughs, and into his eyes until an already dim image became merely a sketch in the middle of the night.

And once again, nothing.

Sammy would later call this his baptism.

He crawled- his legs were upright and here to stay now. He couldn't feel his nakedness, but this was still the most vulnerable a man could ever be-…never be.

Because maybe "man" was no longer the right word.

From this moment on, he was helpless but to wander the halls of the place he used to traverse with such confidence, such bravado, such _knowing-_ when truthfully even before the ink he had known nothing at all. He was guided only by senseless instinct and the sound of his own voice echoing down to hell.

Every so often he'd see his own flesh through the blinds of ink that took his sight, and he'd scream again.

And **he'd** come again.

 _Again._

 _Again._

 _Again._

The same as before, holding the soul's comparatively tiny frame, making him feel the sweat, spit, or blood of this gargantuan thing pour itself onto him- and somehow, everywhere around him too…like the whole room was to be washed with this very essence until it was all the same as **he.**

And it would keep happening, every time he screamed.

And each time, he'd be rendered totally blind, senseless a little longer than he was the last.

" _What am I missing, my lord?"_

The turning point, and the mark of the last time he would be cleansed. The demon must have seen his search for understanding, and this surely must have been what **he** had waited for.

The **drips** stopped, and Sammy felt himself being dragged somewhere new. He was left there- no longer feeling his newfound god's grasp but still sensing **he** was either there either physically or in spirit. It didn't matter.

He dropped to his hands and knees with a crash onto a pile of sturdy objects, something underneath him breaking. He could barely identify it as his sight kept going and going away and away, but…-

What he had shattered was the visage of Bendy, smiling upon him through his darkness.

His hands slowly were drawn to one piece in particular, almost like being pulled by a string by something invisible. Eyes stared back at him- eyes that he lacked.

Eyes to take for his own.

And then he could never see without his mask again, all the brown and white and yellow fleeing his eyes the moment his lord's face was removed- but he would never need otherwise, he promised himself. He would only need the guiding light of his master- just as he had been brought to the faith budding in his chest, he would trust.

There was nothing else to trust, especially not himself.

From that moment on there was no Sammy Lawrence. There was only the prophet and his hymns of demonic deliverance.

And that is who he remained up till he saw a man of flesh and blood stumble into his hall of song. Up until he hit him upon the back of the head and saw the smallest bit of red stain the floor where his unconscious body slumped down. Up until he carried the sacrificial lamb to his final resting place, so anxious that he couldn't even knot the ropes he knew for sure he could tie. Up until he kneeled in front of this man and with so, so much fear gently stroked his face, observing the age that had taken him, knowing that there would be no age left waiting for him in just a few moments.

And believing in his heart that this was surely good. It must be good, even if in order to give life the demon must also take it away.

The lamb's shirt was stained with blood and ink, but it still remained a powder blue. The prophet would never forget that.

Not even feeling his chest rip open and tear in two would take that memory away.

And as his lord's punishment for a misdeed he'd ponder until a woman of the same reds and blues would make him question it all over again, he was sent back to the puddles.

He would preach and preach, using every ounce of strength in his bodiless spirit to make use of the horribly intimate nature of this purgatory, begging everyone to realize what he did- that he couldn't do this alone. He couldn't save them if they didn't want to be saved.

Maybe death was meant to be the punishment, but there could be nothing worse than being alone with a salvation that could save no one no matter how much he believed. He heard murmurs thereafter in the puddles of that man and what he had done- and evidence that once again, nothing was the same but not in the way he had hoped. He had fought and prayed so hard for so long only to return to the swirling fishbowl of lost souls, alone in a crowd that would never listen to anything besides this moment's misery, this second's struggle.

And that's why she was so important. She saved him from being alone. Sammy didn't know if she could save him from all that he knew now, but there was nothing left to do but try.

…As had been his way from faith's beginnings.


	66. Painted Over

**66- Painted Over**

" _And have mercy on those who doubt…"_ – Jude 1:22

* * *

To already believe you're disgusting and then be described by someone who utterly loathes you is an experience so upsetting that it has no concise words. It's an affirmation of the worst things about you, a promise that however you go forward may not be any better than where you've been. So of course, Sammy was tired. Of course, he was exhausted.

And of course, after all these years of hoping only to find that his true identity was not a blank canvas but one already painted in hues he felt sickened to see…he didn't know what to do.

He just knew he had to get back to her, even if he didn't have an answer anymore for who he hoped to be at the end of all this. _"It will still be better,"_ he pledged to himself, _"There is nothing else left but better."_

But for his past to be painted by Alice's brush, regardless of knowing that her bias and hatred could be clouding the true image, was still a horrid sight to behold. Maybe that's why even if he understood the demon less and less, he would still trust. He would trust that to have his sight taken and given back was somehow good, and to be alone until Francine was thrown into his arms was even better…even if he was reminded moment after moment of what he no longer had.

And now? Also of what she always had that he never did- integrity. If even an inkling of Alice's account of Susie's life in the studio was true, then he did not retain the cornerstone of his faith and life's meaning.

The age-old prophet under a new light took his time to mull over fresh reality but did eventually return to his own department, reading his name all over the walls as if it was something of pride profession. But he wasn't proud of it.

For once, Francine was actually there waiting for him in his sanctuary when he came back- something that had never happened before. Surely this was a sign that the world was upside down, he thought sarcastically at first, but…-

…He was grateful. At least one thing had remained- she did come back. And with this, Francine was surprised not only to see him- having expected him to stay here in wait with nail-biting anxiety until she was satisfied with a taste of independence- but also surprised to see him exhale with a groan and-

And drop her own bag to his feet.

Her eyes popped wide.

He knew.

 _Shit, he knew._

He knew she saw Alice. She tried to relay the entire series of events in her mind; did she take the bag with her to Joey's- what would she call it?...-office?

For some reason it felt necessary to confirm mentally that she did not recall doing so, despite literal, tangible evidence fallen right from his fingers to prove that she had not. As Sammy stared at her blankly, unreadable with the face that gave him sight, now it was pulling all together. Her feet flew to stand up and arise her from the stool, mouth slightly agape with dread. _That's_ why Sammy wasn't back when she came; he must have gotten worried about how long she was gone and followed a gut fear that she had gone where she was forbidden- Heavenly Toys.

And that he found signs of her but not she herself.

God, what if he thought Alice had her? What if he chased Alice down, demanded she give Francine back? What if they fought?! _God almighty-_

And then something even worse that made sweat fall from her brow.

 _What if he knew about Joey?_

Her stomach lurched as Sammy finally, finally sauntered his way over, one heavy step at a time.

"Sammy-! Sammy, I can explain-!"

And just as he had stepped so close, his flat, painted eyes gradually tilting down to glare at her until they were almost perpendicular to the floor…-

One hand on her shoulder.

Then other on the back of her head.

And then she was pulled in a flush to his inky chest.

It left her breathless, an already gaping mouth releasing an involuntary grunt with her gasp. Her scalp tingled as icy fingers curled into her hair. Her cheek numbed with the cold of his torso as she was pressed in closer and closer. And the touch on her shoulder gripped tight, as if he was afraid she'd fly away with an unfelt wind.

He was… _holding_ her.

"Thank you, my...friend," he whispered, voice lacking power because of all the words someone else spoke. "Thank you for staying," even though it was rather that she had left and come back.

She'd never have any idea how much and in how many ways he meant that, Francine being the only one in the world besides the ink demon himself to prove loyal to the prophet despite all his inherent sin.

He'd never have any idea how Francine knew now how to compare his freezing touch to the warm one of another man who cared for her safety too, and how the recency of both upon her skin made her feel sick as their feelings mixed inside her heart but could not seem to combine in peace.

And they both saw this world and themselves so, so differently now even if nothing had changed at all besides the exchange of a few words with someone else who knew better.


	67. I Remember You

**Author's Notes:** _ **I heavily recommend you read my drabble Another Tuesday Afternoon before reading this chapter**_ as it gives better context. (And for anyone who reads this main series, all of the drabbles I write and post here are canon and as things develop, I'll likely reference them more and more so I recommend reading the drabbles in general. All Bendy works on my account here are canon to my Hymns AU). You can find Another Tuesday Afternoon by going to my profile.

 **67- I Remember You**

" _I will remember my song in the night; I will meditate with my heart, and my spirit ponders…"_ – Psalm 77:4

* * *

" _Ugh!"_

A splat against the ground echoed from underneath Alice's heel as it slammed down onto the searcher. Nose wrinkling in disgust, she was reminded that _this_ was why she hardly ever left her cloud nine. The sight of these pathetic, writhing… _wormlike_ things pulling themselves out of the ooze was enough to make her skin crawl- let alone when puddles formed new mass and became _arms_ reaching out for her. But no, it wasn't an angel's gentle mercy they craved- it was surely her perfection; for some reason they craved to attack once in a while even someone as she made of ink- maybe because she reminded them of what they _really_ wanted: her shreds of humanity.

And that she simply could not give away. Not again.

A throaty hiss emerges from underneath her feet once again but was promptly silenced, a head newly formed with a gaping, dripping mouth collapsing back into the puddles hardly two seconds after being born to suffer once more. She skirted the sole of her shoe across the black smear on the floor after this second stomp- both for good measure and to satisfy something inside her that desired violence for even _approaching_ her so recklessly.

"Horrible thing!"

She tried not to empathize with the searchers, tried not to remember they were once people…tried not to consider that maybe in some way, they still were.

But that was precisely the kind of being she had left her haven to find.

It wasn't any sort of dual personality that made Alice so split on her feelings and behaviors. No, that would be too easy of an excuse, and to find refuge in such an idea would be a disservice to her complexity, her history, and her pain. A stomach that didn't need to exist still churned now to remind Alice that even if dark magic was the medium, no one in this studio had needed much more than a push to twist inside out into caricatures of the things that scared them most. Not her, not Sammy, not-…

…Norman.

And before she knew it, she was in the elevator to descend yet again- not alongside someone she hated mere hours before but to find someone she had tried to forget.

But never could.

That made the angel curse herself. Do you know how much work it is to detach yourself from the place- the people you once thrived among? To dismiss it all because there's no possibility to reach anything even akin to peace in this hell otherwise?

" _A lifetime,"_ her sweeter voice lamented to the other, _"It took a lifetime."_

And then, a reply:

"And it only took a visit from just a girl to feel it fleeing from my fingertips."

Her figure became silhouetted as she crossed into a realm she knew well but avoided, eyes narrowing down at the abyss of ink as one hand rose and curled its fingers onto the banister. It hollowed her- just for a moment- but a small, frustrated groan rumbled her throat as she came to realize she was delaying the inevitable. A quick turn and broken lips stretching side to side in an open frown, she descended from her royal tower down, down, down to the one who may have been the lowest of creatures in her rotten kingdom.

A frown became a scowl as that tape came into her life once again, right at the entrance of the maze. She hated it- she remembered the first time she found it. Norman's voice once again, here to comfort her as her body melted over and over beneath her own self when she first emerged from the puddles. To a black and white slug, it was like a voice from above- and surely, if Norman was still alive, he'd be her saving grace like he had been every time before. As Alice firstborn dragged herself into the maze, the image was so clear to her desperate mind: his gentle smile, pushing wrinkles deeper into his face; half-lidded eyes of a beautiful dark brown, gazing at her with a glimmer of understanding and sympathy she wasn't even sure she had for herself; and she could feel his hand touching hers, skin calloused with age delicate with hers as an elderly gentleman helped her out of her seat after a lunch break together that went by far too fast.

All of that was gone forever the moment she knew he was too.

There was the shadow of a human-like figure coming looming from one of the clearings of this maze; over the sound of her heaving, wet breath she could hear the clicking of projectors. The lights blinded her eyes- made her panic and flail in her already horrified, agonizing state of body and mind- but she kept moving. Norman? _Norman?!_ Someone was there. But as she grew closer, Susie began to understand that this shadow was only human _-like_ for a reason.

Something in the shape of a person was threaded like a string through quilt- wires that sparked and spat through cuts and tears, their brief lights flying across this corpse to reveal a rubbery texture or maybe one like that of wettened leather. The thick lines and coils loosely cocooned him, minimal enough to make this thing inside visible but strong enough to let him dangle in the air like a hanged man left to decay as a symbol of worse to come for those who sinned. The mess of wiring converged towards the top to secure the black web's prize to the wall and ceiling, leaving unperceivable from neck-up what remained of this former mortal being.

A spiderweb of tubing and electricity crawled around someone who was no longer mister Norman Polk, a gloved hand dangling just a few inches beyond the perimeter of his net of a coffin.

And even in all her dawning fear, anguish, and misery, Susie had to reach up to hold it once again.

That's when the mechanical man sputtered to life once more.

Something radiated in shuddering rays of light from where his head should have been in this tangle, and then- then she saw the wires shift as something beneath them tried to move but couldn't. In response, a groan- and that's when an already dropping feeling in her dribbling chest began to plummet. It was a sound she had never heard before, the screech of an animal unmet by any human ears, and it was muffled, yes, but…

It was muffled by the speaker at his chest, not by anything above it.

Susie yelped and retracted her grasp but her new fingers were much too slow. This thing's grip was fast, instinctive, and _tight._ And it held on to her for dear life as the body attached began to spur and jerk about more and more violently, desperately by the second as limbs tried to move about but were restrained.

But he was unrestrainable now, and each time one of these wires tore into two and made him closer and closer to liberty, she screamed and pulled away.

Susie would never know if she pulled to free him or to free herself from him.

In one final, absolutely haunting crescendo of ferocity and noise, the inorganic womb finished tearing apart to release him to new life and into the arms of someone that didn't mother him before but rather felt his like he was a father. Some of the wires still clung to his body after its descent to the studio floor and would remain forevermore.

The being splattered into the ink beneath them, murmuring grunt-like scratches into the liquid until it rippled. And the worse part that she being nearly liquid herself, it rippled through her too.

She felt him.

And eventually Susie would learn that he felt her this way too.

But that would be another day, another time she'd come to visit him in disbelief, morbid curiosity, and grief, because today?

Today was the day she breathlessly searched for a familiar face in this whole twisted hell, crawling back against the wall until her barely formed arms and neck touched the wood behind to fully gaze upon who had entered this life alongside she.

And today was the day she would realize she would never find one such face, the illumination of reality falling upon her both literally and spiritually with a raise of the projector.

From then forward, Susie knew that Norman was gone, and she began to see that she was something else too. Nothing would- could- ever be the same, and new names accompanied new existences.

But all these years later, Alice could more than manage to identify herself but still didn't know if the creature in front of her was merely the projectionist or truly Norman Polk.

As the angel approached someone with no resemblance to the man she once cared for, that made her frown in a different sort of way. Regret, sadness… _unsureness._ That last feeling, especially, was the one she hated most, and it was the reason she visited him so little. It made her unsure.

It made her unsure if he was something entirely new of if everything she had called her friend was in there too.

That terrifying, appalling excuse of a head finally turned to "face" her as she stopped two meters away from his cozy corner, sitting cross-legged among the puddles with an inky heart seized in his hand. Alice had observed the way he squeezed it, put pressure on its sides…like a _toy._

Brief assurance. Norman would never be so callous as to do that.

 _But yet again, Susie wouldn't have ripped hearts out either._

It made her grimace, an expression noticed by the projectionist with a croak and a head tilt almost like a confused dog. When she simply dug her fingers into her crossed forearms more, a louder sound emerged from his chest, and he suddenly threw himself back into the murk-stained walls.

He was scared. Alice tried not to see that how he looked before her now must have been how she did to him at that first appearance so many years ago, but that couldn't be helped. And so with nothing else to do, she released a sigh and allowed her expression to droop into neutrality.

She felt anything but neutral, of course, but Francine wasn't the person to teach her that middle ground was the only way to reconcile two extremes; no, that was none other than the person at her feet.

Norman, still shaken with the events of when the mortal woman visited him last, required a moment for adrenaline to settle and for a stance ready to run or fight to loosen into something more relaxed. That light of his flickered into something dimmer, almost as if it softened for his guest, and one slow step after another he came closer.

Norman was the only person of ink Alice ever let touch her, but it was still a begrudging acceptance. Despite learning that it didn't taint her physically, Alice was always afraid herself if she was letting a monster roam her face or if such interaction was all a voiceless, nearly mindless old friend had left to give to the young lady he wished the best for. She bit the inside of her lip to keep it from stretching in disgust or dismay as one hand held her shoulder and the other clasped much too rough for her liking at the already disfigured side of her face.

" _Norman,"_ she finally spoke, feeling her torn jaw brush against his palm.

Yet another flicker, yet another bit of static from his chest- either meaningless response to stimuli or a response meant to politely ask for her to continue. She held back an eye roll; Alice never truly thought of a reason to come- at least one to attempt to explain to someone who might not even understand.

No, she comprehended as she gently mirrored his touches to his own "chin" and the "skin" of his shoulder next to that reel breaking through black, moist flesh; no, she knew Norman couldn't give any words of comfort now like he had when Sammy had bothered her before.

But she could still lament in his presence like she never had opportunity to- before the flood of ink- of feeling the betrayal of her best friend deeming her unworthy to be the angel she knew she rightfully earned the name to.

Regardless of whether or not Sammy owned up to sins he couldn't remember, she didn't think she could forgive. It was the last thing of importance to occur before she died, and so like a ghost, Alice was forced to live on forever until her unfinished business was laid to rest like her cadaver.

But these things? They could never be given back. And that would haunt her forever, both being and never truly being neither the Alice to be revered and respected nor the Susie with dreams and a future ahead and within reach, the worst of limbos. Maybe in a literal sense Sammy only took her job away, but with all between them- all their trust and all their comradery amid Joey's chaos- it had meant so much more.

Still did, hand in hand with the prophet he became.

With only a remnant of Norman being enough for this time and this time only, the woman who deserved better melted into him and heard her own quiet mumbles echo through the labyrinth of light, wood, and ink as she spoke into his chest. A man unidentified to be himself or someone else held the girl who was much the same way, unknown if this sensation of her pressed against him was an ancient comfort or a newfound amazement depending on where his mind lingered now. He could feel her sing to him in between pauses of silence where she choked back the threat to cry- something never to be heard by even the walls themselves- much like how this projectionist once relished hearing her fill the studio with song long, long ago.


	68. Filling the Void

**68- Filling the Void**

" _Addressing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody to the Lord with your heart,"_ \- Ephesians 5:19

* * *

The news about the saferoom was unsettling to say the least. So much drama, so much heartache for it all to be dashed away as fast as it had come. Sammy _swore_ a number of things that should have made this impossible: one, that it must have been his fault it was locked. There was no way to bolster the door without someone on the inside to do it, but somehow he had done it- had to in order for him to leave it with no one within waiting for him. Two, when they did arrive to find their haven inaccessible, he pulled like hell; he tugged and he tugged both to offer his friend safety once more and to wipe off that growing look of sadness as it dawned upon her that all of her precious personal items might be gone forever.

Knowing Francine had to find her solace somewhere else, when she had asked to lose herself for a time within the studio, he allowed it. She came back saying the saferoom maybe was never locked at all. Or worse- he dared to fear but not dwell upon- that someone unlocked it.

But that was only the glaze on Sammy's stack of troubles. This world- _his_ world- was proving much more unstable than he had realized, and his manner of discovering it was feeling how the foundation of his faith shook and shook which each thing peaking through the darkness of stolen memory.

A summary of his current perspective of himself currently that he was hardly a man kept alive by a force he couldn't comprehend; someday, he presumed to be the ink demon's choosing, he would be set free. And that, for a long time, was the extent of it! He didn't ask- didn't w _ant_ to ask- what he was before all this and who he would be in a more glorious future.

But then Alice answered one of those two mysteries, and it left so very unsure if the latter would bear any resemblance to it- and if he would want it to.

And so with nothing else to do, Sammy turned to what comforted him, what cradled his weary soul without fail.

Francine observed with intent as her lost prophet sang his hymns.

A gentle, unique voice swept the saferoom with airy fervor, Sammy's upper back lounged against the wall as fingers plucked his favorite instrument's strings. The banjo sang back, vibrations clear as day both visually and audibly as oily tips brushed with practiced perfection. Even in all her own personal weariness, that made Francine smile; she had never known the banjo to be such a wonderful sound before she met the music director, but Sammy now had her convinced of its beauty for the rest of her life.

 _The rest of her life._

The woman frowned as she rested her closed hands on the table in front of her at that phrase's appearance in her inner dialogue. Sammy wasn't the only person unsure about the future. Ever since she first visited the band room, she had felt convinced that someday, it'd all be okay; she'd survive and she'd go home. She learned since, of course, that what was in between surviving and going home was important, but now that last part didn't seem so simple.

As Sammy titled his head back, that cartoonish mask of his leaving unsure if it was a firm stare to something out there or merely a mindless look to the above he hoped to see someday, Francine yet again found Joey's whispers in her heart. The only spot of color besides herself begged the young woman to not think about it anymore- to not bother rescuing the memory of those lives lost to the ink- and simply wait for the end to come. It was such a hopelessness in his sad eyes as he asked her this, and yet it was a hope he had for them nonetheless. And so staring ahead at the tar-like man she wanted to uncover since she first opened her eyes to the inky shroud of their curse, she felt so very uncertain what to do.

And ignorant to the parallel pains of Sammy's mind, she had to test it.

"Hey Sammy."

A flowing stop to his voice, a hum in his throat faded so that even its interruption sounded pleasant to the ear. That second face of his turned down more her way, scratched eyes still managing to look upon Francine in wait as he continued to strum the cords in his fingers.

What they saw was his friend leaning over the wooden table, tucking her chin into folded arms, her eyes half-lidded with something more tender than mere tiredness.

"When we get out of here…what do you think you're gonna do?"

It wasn't meant to be so poignant, but hell- it _was._ His fingers stopped playing too, an abrupt and unharmonious stop as being taken aback left him no longer aware of music entirely. He choked back something harsh; she didn't know. Francine had no awareness of his recent discomforts that left him unknowing if the future could be as disheartening as his newfound past, and so words with sting were pulled back for someone else another day. Before him was simply a soul that was still coping with the realities of the ink, and for her sake, he'd play along.

"I suppose I need you to be more specific than that," he replied hesitantly, unsure if specification would somehow make him more uncomfortable.

"I mean- like-" She hadn't thought this out. Francine pursed her lips as let her eyes dart across the marks of the table in search of answers. Her gaze fell upon that paper again- Henry and Boris, names written here before she had ever even first set foot in this sanctuary- and she had to pry it away. But it was just long enough of a gaze upon one representative of the studio's vast collection of mysteries for her to wonder once more what happened to everyone here, and so maybe that was what guided her next question.

"What are you gonna tell people about what happened?"

There were no words for how sick that made Sammy feel; no other question could be more precise to dig into his current insecurities and fears. At first he replied only with silence, and as it continued, Francine began to see that this wasn't a pause of ponderance but rather a paralysis of some sort taking his body and voice, and the moment she realized this, guilt started to ache straight into her bones.

"I'm- I'm sorry…" was the best she could give. Damn it, Joey had a point. This whole time she had to fight tooth and nail to get any sort of information about Sammy- and she had to struggle against _him._ Surely, at least some of what they found together was worth his knowing, but…

"…It's fine." As Sammy finally exhaled a lie, putting a hand dripping with stress to his head and let the banjo droop down to the floor with a limp grasp, Francine had maybe her first moment of clarity that he really _didn't_ want to know for more of a reason than just being afraid to look for it.

But now she was left sitting here, watching him melt once more with a question she knew he wouldn't end up answering for her today.

Suddenly, a compromise to satisfy her misgivings came to be.

"…Do you want to know what I want to do when we get out?"

Through Sammy's misery, these words pierced the veil clouding his mind. The black obscuring the corners of his sight retreated, and a mouth slightly agape faced the woman who spoke so very softly. And she had a look to match- her gentle gaze remained, mouth slightly open herself as a glitter of some sort came to her eyes. She was realizing something much in the same way as when she reminded him of his favorite song some time ago.

And indeed, that was a telltale sign that something just as magical was ahead.

"…I want to have you listen to every song you've never heard."

Even as he didn't know exactly what to think of it, the very notion took his breath away. It made butterflies flutter between his ribs, both strange and uncomfortable as well as undeniably _good._ With the hollowing pain of her last inquiry still echoing in his chest, it was such a bizarre sensation that he couldn't sparse it into something that made sense.

So what he asked next was unidentified to be a reply or a distraction to this feeling she set aflame right from the shine in her eyes into the wind in his lungs.

"You know…" Sammy countered with an unexpected smoothness that was either sly with charm or tender with vulnerability, "I don't think you ever told me what _your_ favorite song was."

And as her eyes widened with the unanticipated, he suddenly felt a smile carve into his face. A slight terror jumped through him as well, but…even if he wasn't so sure about himself and his own future, at least hers was ahead for him to see and take joy in reclaiming; for this moment, he'd make that enough, and he'd let go fears that maybe they won't be released to her old life at all.

The grin curled even deeper with a whimsy only she seemed able to bring to his face. "Tell me about the song you love the most. I would love to look forward to hearing it myself someday."

As surprise took her expression, Sammy gradually saw it grow into a mischievousness herself, and just then- he realized he forgot something.

"You don't have to wait for that," Francine replied with the most excited sort of quiet trembling her voice.

That oh so familiar phone pulled out of her pocket and after a few touches of instruction unintelligible to her fellow disciple, she left the device on the table and began to walk towards him.

Just as she took him by the hands- a gasp escaping his lips- music began to play.

One pluck of a string not far unlike his own, left just long enough to ring the air before more and more came behind. With a big grin fighting against the shyness in her eyes, Francine pulled him from the wall in tandem with the rhythm that began to sway like dancing water.

Just as her fingers intertwined with his, he heard something underneath the sweet sound of strings; a hum- almost like an animal, but…not. It was like magic itself echoing just barely through the walls.

And then as the song took flight, so did she- and she pulled him right along with her, slowly circling the living room in a dance. She'd sway him in and out, closer and farther like a pulse drummed through them.

Indeed, the music itself seemed to be alive.

To hear it was like listening to a single lifetime or maybe even more captured within one song- creation, love, war, death, sorrow, and finally- undeniably-…peace.

There was a beast among it all- a beautiful, entrancing wail of something lost, suffering, and playful all at the same time. Even if it wasn't always heard, it was still there; its sharp yet hushed cry would drift away into the background until it was unknown if it was still there or gone entirely. It didn't matter- this was the tune of its void, filling emptiness with sound like God forged all that breathed life.

And eventually it was clear to be a god that also could take it away.

As she spun him slowly but somehow so firmly around, it was almost like he could see it swirl around him; deep, starry blues for the quiet and striking fires like explosions for when sounds of peril snuck there way in- like cannons in a midnight sky. It was a lyricless song that somehow said more than mere words ever could, orchestrated by the spirit of an incomprehensible enchantment that enveloped them all the same.

Eventually it became clear to Sammy that this wasn't a song meant to simply accompany a story; it _was_ a story in itself.

…It could even be his story.

Beginning and ending much the same way, sounding the same with different meanings after experiencing the thunderous heights in between. It was a song about faith, danger, and resolution; it was everything he saw himself to be, for better or worse.

Simple, purely, _being._

This bizarre tune would haunt him for much longer than the six minutes it played, so enraptured bar after bar, note after note that it went by in only a few blinks of her eyes- a few satisfied, dreamy murmurs of her voice sighing and humming with the unspoken tale. The beat of this divine hymn would follow him forevermore, much like others always had through his god Bendy.

And just as the song began, it ended the same way, signaling the cycle of existence ready to end and start over, with Francine hesitantly but surely letting him into a bit of her world this time instead of her into his- the sound of harps not too far from the thump in his chest as their dance slowed into almost nothing, much like the quieting chant that surrounded them less and less.

Their inner thoughts were private, but as Francine shared her favorite song- feeling his hands in hers- there was a combined assurance made to describe all that was: the possibility that the creature who took away and the man that wanted them to forget were maybe the ones that gave the most of all.

It was the most they could do with what they had.

* * *

 **Author's Notes: The song featured in this chapter is Voidfish (plural) by Griffin McElroy and Rachel Rose Mitchell**


	69. Time Will Tell

**69- Time Will Tell**

" _You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you."_ – Isaiah 26:3

* * *

"Do you…enjoy dancing?"

Joey gave her a grin growing out of a touch of hesitation, a touch of shyness even, as she sat across him once again in his lonely office. But even if his smile was small, a glitter in his eyes certainly wasn't.

It was…relieving, almost, for him to react; the beginning of this third visit to the middle-aged cartoonist was arguably a bit tongue-tied. He asked her how she had been doing and she explained that recent moment that undeniably would be special for a very, very long time. The expression upon his face remained unchanged, simply listening and observing the woman in the chair past his desk as she described her silent worries for the man of ink and the musical remedy she employed that seemed to heal wounds she reopened. An unstretched, flat mouth behind folded hands, brown eyes behind his stained glasses seeming to pierce into her despite how nonthreatening the cordial old artist was. He murmured something at one point- something about "I'm so glad you have someone that keeps you from being alone,"- but that look wouldn't leave him.

He was certainly, undoubtedly worried until the moment she assured her new life's mentor that truly she'd done her best to leave the past be, leaving Mr. Drew flushed with ease and…something else. Whatever it was, she liked it, and so the young woman gave her own reserved yet warm nod and smile in response to his inquiry.

"I don't really, like- dance much at all or know-…know _how_ , but…" Her eyes rolled to the floor, staring at the floorboards a ways off where shadow and reality met and blurred details of their environment. A few fluttery blinks and her gaze met his once more, a shine of their own in tender, childish vulnerability. "…I do have fun to," she finished in a confession so soft she briefly wondered if he could hear it at all.

That is- until she saw his eyes narrow, his smile sharpen, and his head shake with a "tsk, tsk" of much the same tone as hers.

"I don't suppose you can say you don't know how to dance after going about dancing like you said you did," he countered, that expression about him now obviously a sort of playfulness. It made her cheeks a touch hotter, mouth drooping slightly in the sort of embarrassment that comes without shame.

Heaven knows it could have only gotten worse when Joey walked over and held out his hand, the frills of his undershirt's sleeve tickling at his wrist as that mild but mischievous grin waited an arm's length away. The other hand bent backwards behind him, completing the gentlemanly stance of someone long distanced from the society he formerly offered it to. Francine's hand rose slowly at first in mere surprise and then…as she looked over him…-

Joey's touch as she placed her fingertips on his in offering was so amazingly delicate, every drop of care he had in his old bones tangible in how gradually he took her hand into his. A thumb with rosy skin smoothed over her knuckles, a brief moment of what was maybe comprehension- of _humanity-_ before his hold tightened into a grip and one last look was thrown over his shoulder the woman's way before pulling her behind and walking into the nothingness ahead, eyes smoldering quietly with anticipation.

At first, Francine was mesmerized alone by the idea that he was taking her from her seat to dance, but as he continued to move on towards the growing darkness, other things took her attention. Finally as Joey slowed to a stop some distance away from where they began, the shadows pulled away and before them was a phonograph. That- that… _definitely_ wasn't within sight before; it made Francine's brow furrow in confusion, but soon the draw of another mystery pulled her in- the man that was now holding her hand.

"I say…" he began in a soft, hushed voice as his free hand reached for the device, "…It'd be most appropriate for you to prove me wrong."

And as taken aback as Francine was, she had no heart to tell him no- but had all of it to allow this.

Especially as the music played.

It was scratched; it was faded; it had all the characteristic traits of a record being played on a machine certainly much older than she, but it was also somehow…more than anything she had ever heard.

Unlike with Sammy, it was her turn to be surrounded by audible magic, and indeed "surrounded" this time around meant every meaning of the word. As the short man relinquished his hold on the phonograph's needle to take her second palm in turn, their drifting further and further away with each slow yet confident step of his made it more and more evident that the sound wasn't…emanating from the dusty record.

It came from everywhere.

Like it was a song straight from his heart.

Francine tried for just a moment to focus on the music alone- this _bizarre_ wonder they were suddenly encased in, looking up and all around to try to detect a singular source of the tune- but then her eyes inevitably fell back on the gold within Joey's, and soon this sweeping away by the fatherly old man and his invisible orchestra floating around them like a breeze became a unified, singular experience.

Years of isolation couldn't seem to deprive Mr. Drew of his well-earned whimsy and coordination, Francine in her inexperience at first having to watch her feet as the jazz swayed in and Joey took one step at a time-

"No, darling." A soft interruption, Joey releasing his left hand to tap underneath her chin, a guiding gesture to continue to meet his dreamy, half-lidded stare. "Don't you worry about stepping on my toes; don't you worry about tripping over." Something about him as she looked closer and closer- something she found so easy to trust as his head titled slightly and the slight shadow of his hat pulled over his irises to make them seem to glow even brighter. "Just close your eyes...and stop searching for the music when you can feel it right there inside you."

And before leaving to hold her once again, his fingertips gently moved to her face to pull widened eyelids down till they shut. Just in their last sliver of sight, she saw a certain seriousness about him as he nearly whispered:

"I _promise_ you won't fall down."

And in a now lightless world, Francine decided she was helpless but to abide. " _Feel it…feel it…"_ The young woman forced her mind to cease its noisy narration in order to take in a song rusted bronze with passing time.

And even with her eyes closed, Joey still hummed with satisfaction as her expression made clear that she was beginning to understand what he had meant. The floor beneath them shifted with his next stride, causing his brow to curl with worry.

"Now…promise me in return that you'll keep them closed… And try your best."

An awkward bob of the chin in reply, her lips pursed in concentration. And when Joey took a step back, he nearly silently sighed in relief as it became clear she was doing as was told; she did not react when behind Joey's heels, floorboards slowly apparated like ghosts out of a fog, floating just a touch higher and higher like an ascending staircase. Francine could feel one decidedly firm pinch of his fingers as her guide chose to rise himself and her up, each pace in tandem with the music in such a way that this sensation was indistinguishable from their dance without aide of her sight.

Instead, it seemed like a sudden burst of flight to them both in distinctly different ways, and to nearly his disbelief-

The girl held within his grasp giggled.

And that decided it all.

Soon they were truly waltzing in the sky, twirling and twisting with a wonderful sort of casual grace. She could feel him pull her in and out- could hear the slight laughter just a bit ahead- as the smooth jazz picked up and calmly set them flying. She could _feel_ each note of this melody breathe into her, each soft blow of the trumpet cross between their fingertips as he took her back and forth between an arm's length.

What she couldn't see was a piece of wood emerge with every shift underneath the soles of her shoes, seamlessly manufacturing an experience unlike any other out of thin air.

As Joey would guide her away from one spot to form new ballroom floors, the ones they stepped upon would fade away just as he came. He briefly glanced behind him, silently marveling at this, but otherwise kept her focus sternly upon her, watching not only her happiness but her body language. Joey was a remarkable dancing partner, able to perceive with just a few hints of movement where someone wanted to go and what they would do next. Each hit of the drum, each punctuation of a piano key, he could match it to the young lady ahead, her pudgy form signaling in subtly where the music was going to take her next. A soft glimmer trailed alongside beneath them near the wood like a glare revealing a glass floor, a yellow light not unlike that which shined within the pipe's ink if you searched hard enough to find it.

And then the song faded…and faded…and faded away…

…Until like Peter Pan's pixie dust had lost its enchantment under their toes, they had stepped back down to the room's true floor. Her eyes fluttered open to nothing out of the ordinary besides what she had discovered inside herself.

"Now tell me…" the ginger-haired man in a cream, ink-stained coat coaxed with that honey-dipped voice of his, "… _Can_ you dance?"

And Francine looked him over, breathless and weightless as if someone had lifted her up into the heavens as they twirled all around.

"Yeah." A smile inched across her face as she realized not only had she made this despondent, trapped man a bit more satisfied by indulging him…but that he had done the same for her, too. "Yeah…I think I can."

And his own grin that never once wavered in all the time she saw it only stretched farther and farther with this fantastic reassurance.

"I told you that you could trust me."

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** The song played is "Time Will Tell" by Jonah Levine.


	70. A Broken Record

**70- A Broken Record**

" _For still the vision awaits its appointed time; it hastens to the end—it will not lie. If it seems slow, wait for it; it will surely come; it will not delay."_ – Habakkuk 2:3

* * *

They continued on even after their flight was done, Joey humming along with the rusted but still oh so charming phonograph in the backdrop. Francine and he swayed slowly, hand in hand, as proof that maybe darkness can still contain some light- that a world devoid of God's good graces could still find something worthwhile, worth trusting, and…

As Francine's eyes gaped at the walls around them, the creator's soft singing in her ear as she looked over his shoulder, she realized that there was something still worth…loving, too. It was both perplexing and so full of hope to see Joey like this; the drawings around them he still looked fondly upon- even remembered the names of the children who drew them for him; the way he let a small smile arch up his face; the way his hands held hers as he convinced her she could dance.

It was…remarkable how someone in such misery could reconcile it to find things to make his forced living worthwhile. And if she was a part of it, well…she was just that more proud to give that to him.

After all, his care was quickly something she had grown fond and familiar with, as well. Even in the distress of their first meeting, it could be spotted then he had nothing but-

…Hm.

An interesting thought came to her mind as the young woman thought back to that moment.

"Joey?"

Yet another hum but of a different sort sounded close by- an indication of acknowledgement as eyes glinting with honey-toned candlelight crossed over to his peripheral to look at Francine.

His smile did not waver, but his eyes did grow more slit with ponderance as a silence clung in the air, the only noise that of their steps occasionally shuffling over paper as an orchestral piece began to scratch against the needle more and more with each passing second.

"…How did you know to call me 'Frankie'?"

Half-lidded eyes opened up wide alongside the raise of his brow. As they took one step together to the left, she could hear a soft huff- a chuckle as his eyes rolled down and up in thought. "Now that sounds like a question with a deeper meaning than I can guess," he drawled with a low voice yet light humor.

And this felt like the time he should have asked her to elaborate, but as the top-hatted man let the topic go right there, Francine reluctantly found it her duty to put it back on its feet.

"That's…" Her words were weighed with something- undeniably the tint of things she dearly missed returning to haunt her. "…What my family called me back home," the young woman finished quietly, gaze dropping to their shoes in bittersweet reminiscence.

"…Oh."

The ginger man of magic found the woman besides him sighing as something not so long ago was starting to become all the more distant the more she realized this was not a brief stay but one for the long term; her residency in the studio would bar her from the comforts of home, and to be called her own name was both a gift that she was still herself and not like those of the ink and a reminder that nothing would ever be the same.

Joey hated the quiet of sadness. He'd had enough of it on his own. To see it infect the girl that had come so far to simply find some sort of peace…-

"I always call people by their preferred name, darling," the dandy lost to time filled the silence, "Simply the way to be I've always strived for."

At first, another exhale from her weary lips at his consoling, and Joey saw her eyelids lower and her head tilt down until it was rested against his shoulder. And like the father he was, one hand moved from the grip of dancing to a tender hold at her back. No, he couldn't give her life back, but he was discovering moment after moment that he could make the eternity here something like a bit more like it.

And as he relished in this one kindness in his world of inflictions open those who deserved none, Francine found herself furrowing her brow.

"Joey?" she asked again, almost like a child to the omniscient parent.

"Yes, my dear?"

"I…don't remember telling you that."

Her eyes flickered as well as they could from this vulnerable position to try to spot his. For a split second, their gazes did meet, but then his eyelids fluttered about as soon as they did.

"Oh, yes, of course you did! Right when we first met, my dear girl!" He patted her back, the laugh in his chest felt even as he pulled back to hold her by the shoulders, giving her a skewed grin between the red sideburns at his jaw. And then, the underneath of his eyes pinched as his head titled in a quirky sort of questioning expression. "Don't you remember?" was his soft request for her to reevaluate.

And as the cream-suited figure pulled back, a Bendy pin on his lapel smiling up at her too, Francine let her pupils roll up in their sockets as a lip pursed till she could find some answers.

"…Ah," she murmured something. And then her face lit up. "Ah, ah yeah-! Yeah. You're right." She could feel her face grow red, embarrassed. "Sorry."

An amused but benevolent chuckle made Joey smile even more as he reached to pat her now flushed cheek. "Nothing to worry about!" This voice about him- the confidence, the joy, the compassion…it was so, very different from when Francine and he first came face to face at his ocean of ink. Even in her own aches of remembering the people who used to call her "Frankie," she couldn't help but wonder if the man that repeated it to her now was also somehow…by her own hand…

….Maybe was becoming the person who he used to be, too.

And as his hand pulled back and the shadow over his eyes from the brim of his hat made his irises glitter like gold, she could only surmise that returning old feelings was something good for him to have.

"I know that danger can…skew your perception, to say the least," he added, grin stretched wider just a split second in an emphasis of sympathy, accompanied with a slight bounce of the head not too far from that of a gentleman tipping his hat.

She returned that flicker of a smile, eyes softening and a hushed breath leaving her nose. A lot…did happen. As her eyes left him as his hold readjusted to begin their mindless waltz once again, she stared at the dust motes she could barely see in this stream of yellowish light over the scrawled drawings of the character Joey once loved the most. It was the same light and the same face, in a way, that looked down upon her at her most vulnerable. From when the creature saved her life, gave her the phone, and stood behind her as she dared to find her way without Sammy. Same grin, same ink, same light. Amazing how it could be so comforting yet so terrifying every step of the way.

And then…she began to think. Maybe their swaying was simply the perfect way to get her mind to drift where it hadn't before, but yet again, something didn't sit right. She stared down at Joey's shoes- so shiny and polished somehow despite the dust of immortality- and she frowned again. Character… Undeniably, the ink demon was somehow forged in the image of the little, witless star of the old cartoons scattered like ripped film across the studio. Their lord was one mystery in himself, but…

Yes, she saw Alice too. Even in the interruption of sculpting her face, the woman that taught Francine to sing resembled the pie-eyed toon she saw here and there; she was a broken toy come to life, one to match all the dolls that'd never see the arms of children.

The…butcher gang, even- Francine recalled their title from the poster or two she spotted amid Heavenly Toys. Even as they resembled voodoo dolls more than the drawings- that much was clear with only the brief glances she had of their intended form- the studio's mortal wanderer was only stopped by the aghast of horrific images of human eyes and extra mouths on beings that shouldn't exist to believe that they were real at all.

But there was one she couldn't make out, no matter how hard she tried, and without second thought, she assumed the man that knew so much could answer what Sammy did not when she asked him some time before.

"Would you know about Boris?"

Something- something immediately changed. She could feel it.

"…Excuse me, my dear?" the voice at her side returned in a slight, high pitch.

"Boris the wolf." Opportunistically, the flow of the dance led her and he to step back from one another and have their arms meet over the gap, giving her the chance to showed Joey her furrowed brow and curious eyes. Her own voice was smooth, slowed with wonder and unsure thoughts. "He's on all the posters. But…I haven't seen him yet. I've seen every other cartoon but him."

The last statement came out soft with a look that darted over his rosy face just a little- maybe at the first mention of the life he had before his creations became something so much more and worse than he had imagined. Something did change over him as he met her eyes- a blink indicating he was searching for something to say.

"Well I suppose we could find you a reel of his segment 'Sheep Songs' if you're really so eager to see more of him-"

" _No-"_ she interrupted, voice slightly sharp with concern but soon subdued as she saw his own eyes glinting and brow curl with worry. "Like…I mean…- _him._ Real. Everything else in…some way became real!" Instead of them joining back together in their swaying, souls old and new remained separated as something dawned over them both. "But I haven't seen Boris yet." Joey felt her hand's grip grow firm as her voice grew more hushed, yet again witnessing her beseech him for answers. "Do you…have any idea about that?"

His sigh was audible, stance ceasing to be ready to hop back into the call of the music floating in the backdrop as he chose to merely hold her hand, taking one step closer and lifting it up near his chest. Fingers from both of his hands wrapped around hers, mouth stretched back in a helpless sort of care.

"…No, Frankie," he answered in almost a whisper, a gaze of pity looking her way. "Not the foggiest idea." And almost as an afterthought- "How strange."

And just as an admittance of ignorance seemed to bring yet another pause to here yearning for truth-

"Henry."

Her sudden, single word made his eyes pop wider than she'd ever seen before.

"…I beg your pardon."

"I saw that name- I saw it written next to 'Boris' in the place I've been staying at." She paused, studying his new expression. "Do you…remember a Henry? Was he a cartoon, too?"

Joey winced.

Indeed, not only did she release his long lost wonderful, delightful personality of a world filled with color, but also the pandora's box of fear from when he first saw said color drain for good.

"No darling," the most haunted, horrified man in the world manage to say with only a slight quake in his voice. The darkness of days once filled with sunshine washed over him, and if not for her squeezing back, his hands might have gone limp to his sides as they held hers. Abruptly, he could no longer match her look with his, and his head twisted down and to the side to stare towards his desk- flowers, candles, and papers abound it. His next breath out was like his soul still clawed his nails into the very words he said, both never wanting to let go and lamenting that he could not.

"That was my son."

And all she could say was "Oh." What else could you say to that? To reminding someone you've grown to feel for of the person he fought so hard to keep only for him to fall through his fingers?

And indeed, even if his hold was laxed by the sting of redemption never to be, she found as she nearly slipped her hand away in surprise that Joey would not let her go too. So to that, she could only give the simplest of commiserations.

"I'm…I'm so sorry. I had no idea." And a blush of a guilt of a different kind than before came across her face, her stare, too, shifting away just as his did. Maybe back before the supernatural simply became the natural, Francine would abide by life's lessons of politeness and to put one's grief before her own desires. Maybe she wouldn't have continued to let her mind stray once more, even in or possibly even because of the presence of the man ahead, clearly despondent with loss.

But now she knew his loss, too- that of her _own_ family. And that steered her towards something entirely new.

"Wait." As she spoke again, his thumb rubbed over hers, his consciousness still somewhere far away as she began to mumble something hardly audible. "Why was his name there?"

But then the pain on his expression spread until it became something sharper- a blade of past hurt cutting across his face until he saw there was great reason to be bothered about the present. He gave an "oh" once more and a grimace to match, holding the girl's hand a bit tighter between his, head shaking side to slightly much like a father would.

"Now what did I tell you about worrying?" he reminded her gently, urging her yet again not to look at things she can't understand. This was the most precious wisdom he had- the best he could give to her.

"Joey…I think this is different." And she matched a look of growing perplexity with one of her own, he worried about her and she worried about him. The more and more she thought about it…yes- the more and more she realized.

If this was true, it could be important. To _him._ And so every word tumbled out of her mouth, she only knowing their truth the second they came forth.

"I read your son's name," she whispered, eyes glinting at his as if it could make him see what she had seen.

Brown eyes grew wide as if he did.

"I saw it…-I saw it written next to Boris-! They-" She saw the writing again in her mind- the tally marks underneath their names. "They were playing a game…!"

And then, finally, her hand pulled out of his, nothing to do but throw her hands to her sides and take in what she had just said. She had uncovered something that wouldn't change her life forever…but rather that of the man that stood ahead.

And he had to know, as much as he found ignorance to be bliss.

"Joey," she could hardly believe herself telling him, "I think Henry and Boris-…I think they were _here."_

One final, jarring scratch of the record and the music was no more, the record spinning in silence. And Joey still found his arm still reaching out for her just as it had been led to when she slipped away. But eventually, eventually…it curled back to his chest, as if making himself smaller, whites of his eyes shining as they stretched wide underneath the shadow of his studio's gloom.

But yet again, he had learned that the best response to truth being laid down at your feet is not to deny it but to accept it. And so in a voice calm for everyone's sake, he managed to level his gaze in order to hold her hand as she wandered into something beyond her reckoning just to help his old, forsaken soul.


	71. Looking Back

**71-Looking Back**

" _All day long he craves for more, but the righteous give without sparing."_ \- Proverbs 21:26

* * *

To the man whom she revealed that not only had his search for his son so many years ago led to this darkness, she now said to him that maybe, just maybe, the darkness eventually reached Henry and consumed him too. The possibility that he came back for his father, the dread that since neither human here together have seen him? That maybe he was gone for good?

To all this the ginger merely said:

"I know."

Of course, her jaw dropped.

"You… _know?"_

As she took a step back in wonder, a hand raised to her chest, he held his own hand- too- still much the same way. What differed, though, was meeting her gaze. Joey's nose was turned down and away from her prying eyes, but it could not hide the slight glimmer of candlelight that revealed so very well how his eyeballs shook in their sockets.

He remained silent, but she simply couldn't stand it.

"Joey…?" Francine whispered, upper body leaning forward almost like it could help her hear whatever thoughts threaded his mind. His mouth slightly twitched back, a tremble in his lip.

It only occurred to her then that maybe he was holding back tears.

"I do, darling," was his calm, hollow answer, staring ahead at the vast nothingness; it was much less scary than to face her. "I do." A subtle inhale, a slow blink. "I could never forget even if I tried."

A noise- not only the gasp but the beginning of a statement- but one that was left unfinished, merely a squeak in the air as Francine found no way to follow up her ideas with no known description. As if he had heard a baby cry in the middle of the night, Joey followed her sharp breath with closing eyes and a soft voice, answering a question she didn't even know to ask.

"He's gone, Frankie."

The palm of one balled fist came to her mouth underneath a brow furrowed in utter disbelief. There was something so, so tender as his expression readjusted to rest upon her; something unbelievable, unspoken, and uncharted in how his wide eyes wrinkled, how his lips parted slightly, and how those golden irises beheld at her as if he saw something she could never.

Despite how much it had to do with her, too.

But she couldn't see that, so the firmness in his worried regard suddenly made her bold to know more.

"Will you…tell me what happened?" A quiet, high-pitched, even innocent inquiry, but it was still something brave indeed.

She hoped he could be brave, too, whatever that entailed to someone who lost so much.

"Now that is something that I _don't_ know, darling," he confessed so unfathomably quietly that you could almost hear his mouth move more than you could hear the syllables of words upon his lips. And as he shook his head side to side in a silent, patient plea for her to stop reminding him of everything he missed, what was uttered next by the man with the softest eyes in the world would only invite the worst.

"I can only assume he died like everyone else."

Now it became clear that the nature of this conversation up till now had meant something very different to the old man than it did to the young woman. She had assumed loss. She had assumed sadness.

But she could never. Ever. Assume this.

Not one death, much less more.

And it being so much to take in at once, she felt her knees buckle and the hand at her mouth press harder and harder until surely it'd leave marks on her skin. Francine tried to sparse this out- Henry, his son. Henry was here. Henry was with a Boris. Both were gone.

 _And there were others much the same way._

But Francine, oh Francine…even if it was her demise, she couldn't stop herself from empathizing so much that she'd ask what never should have been. Something crossed her mind- something instinctive, from trying to put herself into the shoes of this lost soul lingering in front of her until the end of time.

"…How do you know that?"

And as this was spoken, her hand lowered and a guise of shock became one of skepticism. Not of malevolence, no; she sensed none of that in his words, and he had no reason to lie and keep secrets when the truth of his sins was so bare in the shape of their environment. So it was not suspicion of Joey that motivated a narrowing gaze.

It was a hope against hope that it couldn't be true because there was no way Joey _could_ know.

And what's more, but only for her own sake, no way she could believe anyone before her had died.

And maybe Joey meant not what she feared most. Maybe he meant his boy was merely among the others when the studio itself was dragged into the unholy puddles of eternity. That, surely, would in a sadistic, selfish way make Francine feel better than accepting the taking of human life in the very same way she had feared all along she could be taken as she stood living among the dead.

If Henry was flesh and blood when he was in the studio, that changed everything, and so in this brief interlude of ponderance, she prayed that she wasn't simply the protagonist of his story retold.

His mouth opened but did not speak for the longest moment. Ink stained glasses and the shadow of a black and cream top hat could hardly hide the way his eyes looked back at her- something so, so aware. Shoulders rising and falling with the most conscious lungfuls of breath in the world, Mr. Drew stepped forward in the gloom until the bronze of irises became less like a glitter and more like they themselves truly glowed.

"I know, my dear, because I saw it," he informed her gently, in contradiction to what this all had to mean. "I didn't have a choice in the matter."

And before she could even respond to it, Francine felt a grasp yet again. Gentle at her wrist, the wanderer amid sin noticed it was still a hold firm. And now, she could finally identify that look in his trembling eyes. It was only, purely the greatest of care that honeyed his tongue until it seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth in nervousness of a suitable delivery.

"Frankie-" She felt him come closer before she noticed it with her eyes. "I…I need to emphasize how little I joke of this." A thumb smoothed over the vein right at her wrist, a small bump that suddenly felt so, very vulnerable. "When people have come here, up until you-…they've _died."_ And suddenly, a bit louder, a bit more of a curl in his brow. "They come here, and they _die."_

Wait.

She realized something.

The heart in her chest pounded. Oh god. Oh _fucking_ god.

What he just said…no, it wasn't that he had to be wrong.

It was that she already knew this too.

Sammy said this himself long ago when he first earned her trust-

" _My lord…punished me harshly the first time I tried to offer a sacrifice." He sounded fully haunted by this memory; this sentence alone stained her with dread as well, and yet there was more to come. "And then…my savior stopped me once again from shedding blood. But unlike the one before you, you were…" She felt his gaze over her whole body, observing the marvel of her existence. "You were already dying."_

-…She had known from the start that this fate wasn't hers alone.

Shit.

But she had ignored it just to make her living seem less special than it already did as people of ink told her over and over they envied what she had.

 _And they envied what she had retained against all odds._

The truth that she wasn't special at all besides all but her continuing to live was compartmentalized away; she had to cope with the hurt of everyone else before that of herself, and so she never thought about this key truth of her new world again until today.

So it hit her like a brick.

Suddenly and yet finally, Joey's hand properly pressed into hers amid all her personal chaos, and his other rose to claim her shoulder, Joey pulling himself closer and closer in so that all she could see was him and the veracities of magic and ink held in his wise stare.

And just as abruptly, instead of saying something more to explain all this, it then became his turn to interrupt himself with a gasp.

In response, through the darkness, Francine lifted her gaze inch by inch until it was no longer upon Joey but behind his figure. Amid the murk, the slightly fluttering faces of child-drawn paper were joined by their brother, hardly noticeable at a glance. And at first, she didn't respond; all was so, unnaturally still.

But then came a **drip.**

And it took nothing more for the most composed man in the world to let out a yelp, pivoting on his heels to face the ink demon just as **he** came to face _them._

Francine saw arms in front of her, Joey throwing them outstretched to his sides. And as her breath was held and his became sharper, clearer, more burdened by the second, a chill shot down her spine like a falling icicle. She came to comprehend that Joey was standing between her and the god of his own design.

A flurry of blinks looked ahead at the beings she believed to understand most and least, and her mind raced to make sense of the lord's unexpected appearance.

And meantime, Joey did what Francine had done not too far before when last facing the threat of hyperventilation. Behind smeared glass, his gaze upon the ink demon was taken by closing lids. Breath by breath, he managed to steady until the slight quiver in his arms and shoulders became as still as the air about them.

Then came the longest second in the world.

…The demon took a step back and the summoned portal took omnipotence incarnate just as it came. All drops of ink faded one by one until the smoky shadows fled into nothingness and the beads upon each former Bendy fan's page shrunk and dwindled out of existence.

Finally, finally, Francine could hear herself breathe again, and the fingers that had come to her chest noticed the racing heart underneath.

But Mr. Drew? He remained as he was, still outstretched, still facing someone who was no longer there.

"…Joey?"

Silence. She watched her own hand rise and curl fingers in front of her until they unevenly unfolded and reached for his turned shoulder.

" _Joey…?!"_ she repeated, desperate for a reply- anything, please, anything at all-!

Then…the shuffle of feet. As he gradually turned to look back at his beloved company, the emptiness left by the ink demon made that very slight pant upon his lips loud and the dawning sharpness upon his expression shine so bright in the dark.

Francine could name this look she gave him, but she did not understand.

Surely, it was determination.

"…You'll be safe, Frankie," he finally spoke, as if he promised a child there's no such thing as monsters. And indeed, the girl he addressed could distinguish the distinct ring of fatherhood in his voice, steadying him until she could feel it try to steady her.

"You'll be safe."


	72. Change

**72- Change**

" _But if it is by the finger of God that I cast out demons, then the kingdom of God has come upon you."_ – Luke 11:20

* * *

"Francine…" a voice beckoned gently through the doorway, "…Are you alright?"

Sammy tilted his head as he called the first of two names this studio had given her, the pipes above seeming to hum a bit more loudly than when he saw her last. This entire situation was…bizarre, and that was a word that defined every experience in their shared disciplehood in the first place. After their dance, she left in excitement to roam the halls- something about being "too energetic" to stay still- and when she came back?

Not a word.

She simply passed him by without even a glance, walked down the hall, and sat upon the saferoom's gurney. So of course, he'd wonder what he did wrong.

And as he laid eyes upon her, surely it must have been a wound that cut deep.

Feet placed upon her bed and pink bag held to her chest, the woman was curled into herself, arms wrapped around fabric with bent knees just passed. Her head was tipped down and he couldn't see her face.

But the way her backpack shuddered within her embrace said it all.

"Did…" Oh god. He let her go. He trusted her- and he knew he could- but it was his mistake to trust _everyone else._ As Sammy finished entering this makeshift bedroom, so was he slowly committing to ask her something truly terrible. "Did something… _happen?"_

And for some reason it felt oh so awful for him to come closer, one step at a time till he loomed over the woman.

And she didn't answer.

"Francine….?" The man began to fall to his knees, the flat eyes upon his mask urgently searching for hers as their heads became level. And so painfully slow, so painfully barely, she lifted her forehead and showed a sliver of her weary gaze.

…He hadn't seen her this hollowed in a long, long time, he soon realized. And just after seeing her so, dare he say, _happy_ in his dancing arms, it made him all the more sick. What if…what if she had found Alice again? In her horrid need to know, Francine asked Alice yet again what she knew about the prophet.

What if the reason she seemed so upset in this moment- in his presence- was because she now heard the awful things he did in the last, precious moments he had of being alive?

But if that was so, then she did not say.

She merely stared.

Now from her point of view? There was a lot of reasons to stay silent. She wasn't even sure what to say. What _could_ she say?

As she remembered her promise to Joey, she knew it was nothing.

Despite how much it was to keep locked away- secret upon secret now death upon _death-_ even in such great distress she still felt a newly ingrained instinct to abide by her word and give none of Joey's.

And so until she could find a way to excuse it all, all she could offer Sammy was the minimum- a look back into eyes that weren't his. In the following quiet, upset choking them both, something about that gaze of his seemed more and more…meaningful.

An expression filled to the brim with helpless misery upon her grew sharper and sharper with each passing thought, each saved memory. At first, Sammy's voice, again remembering the phrase that made her realize she was not the first on death's doorstep here. It was mixed in with pointless little spots of her life- flickers of the first girl she fell in love with giving her a bright smile, a small hand that was hers holding that of a version of her father much younger than she saw him last, and of course…Gabby proudly giving her a periwinkle, pink, and orange-yellow scribble that he dubbed to be the best portrait of herself she'd ever see-

But then among these faces and voices, almost out of nowhere…-

… _Joey's._

Recollections of their time together- so little compared to that with the others yet so very poignant- echoed in her mind. And her most recent moment with a man dressed in light was somehow the most unsettling of all in this world of darkness:

 _"Joey," she could hardly believe herself telling him, "I think Henry and Boris-…I think they were here."_

 _"I know."_

And as she wandered her own memory to try to piece it all together, she found herself stumbling. Something felt…off.

Wait a second.

…

…

He…

 _Lied._

As her mind began to speak to her- distress making sense out of the blue- she realized he _blatantly_ lied not even a minute after he said he didn't know where Boris was at all.

Her nose wrinkled as it snuggled into her bag, now pressed tighter to her chest. Why would he lie…? There's no reason to lie about that…

Right?

But just as she pushed that thought away, something else came:

 _"It keeps me away from everyone else. Traps me. Confines me in body, mind…_ heart _…and voice. Somehow, you broke in."_

And despite how much she wanted to ignore it, something tugged at her heart. Wouldn't let this go. It's just being paranoid- looking for answers in places that would never hold them-

And yet, she noticed…

She… _broke_ in.

And that's when drifting thoughts became something more.

" _You've been here for a bit of a while, my dear girl. And I haven't once heard you talk about what you were like- only…what others were like."_

How would he _know_ how long she's been here if he was trapped like he said he was…?

 _"Calm down. Now I don't want you to fret over things we can't understand. It won't do you any good- not at all."_

And he…he…-

He didn't want her to ask _questions…?_

 _"Frankie, the demon…has been kind to you-... it sounds like…Impossibly so. And so has my-..._ his _studio, in your presence."_

Dear God in heaven, what the hell does that-?

 _"I can only assume he died like everyone else."_

 _"…How do you know that?"_ she had asked. That first ray of light the young woman finally began to shed on this mystery- not even knowing it.

 _"I know, my dear, because I saw it," he informed her gently, in contradiction to what this all had to mean. "I didn't have a choice in the matter."_

He.

Saw it.

He saw Henry _die._

…Joey…- the studio…- the demon…-

As Sammy saw her become more and more disquiet with something in the air he could never fathom- her breath steadily venturing into hyperventilation- he finally got the sense that maybe he should be panicking too. He didn't notice the way the dust motes in the studio's aura seemed to freeze in place, the way the shine upon his slicked-black skull no longer moved with his dripping body- the way it wasn't only the breath in their lungs that stilled.

The darkness that began to cling to the walls.

" _Francine?!"_

The woman by that name jolted up with a gasp, her eyes so wide Sammy could almost step through them.

And indeed as she sat there, his hand firm on his shoulder- clutching in hopes to grasp whatever was pulling her mind away- she saw more than she had ever seen before.

The pulse in her heart shook and shook and shook until she could feel it sicken and sour ferociously as it boiled up to her jaw- her lips- her fingers-

Sammy stared down, hoping the unwavering gaze of their eternity's lord among them upon his mask could help calm her through whatever trauma she was suffering through once more.

He could never be more wrong.

With Sammy ahead of her- that scarred face of Bendy was matched by one after another of all the toys, clocks, posters as her eyes darted across the room.

The faces of their god had been watching her everywhere.

Everywhere.

 _Every step she had ever taken._

And then she settled back onto he that embodied their lord's everlasting watch- Sammy Lawrence and his marred mask of faith.

His staring.

Staring.

Seeing.

 _Seeing._

 _SEEING-_

Sammy let out a cry as suddenly, the unthinkable happened. He felt his grasp become utterly ripped off her shoulder and wrist captured and jerked sharply away from where they stood, the sound of thin wood clattering to the floor after in one single, swift blow-

…Francine had slapped his mask right off.

That short run from the bedroom to the bathroom lasted an eternity to a man now blind thanks to the violence of the woman she called a friend. His shoulders slammed into the wall of the first stall as he clumsily slipped with her ceasing flight, clumsily skidding to a stop. He couldn't decide if his breathing was louder or his racing heart. As he clambered his way back to full height- about to yell her name once more for an entirely different reason- his teeth felt a palm press roughly, frenziedly over them.

" _Sammy-!"_ Her voice was hushed yet so very, _very_ harsh with an emotion he could not name…as it was one he never heard before. Just as he felt his own racing pulse, he could feel his both through her desperate touch and the unsteady voice coming what must have been not even an inch from him. "Sammy- I- _SHIT-…_ I need you to listen to- _I need you to listen to me."_ With words quivering like an earthquake came a fumbling grasp for the arms at his side, forcing him to tense far more than he ever knew possible. "I- I haven't told you everything. I was- I was scared to. But I found something out- I found out something- the, the _mask!_ He can _SEE!_ Sammy, he _\- he CAN-"_

And up until that moment, no one had noticed something had changed with each passing word from her trembling lips. In Francine's panic, she didn't notice the shadows shifting on the walls into new but oh so familiar shapes, and with her back turned and the man with no eyes facing behind, there was only one single sign of what was to come.

 **Drip.**

That was the last sound before he heard her scream…only for the shriek of her voice to be taken in a second, not even an echo ringing to prove that she was ever in front of him at all. The rough, burdened breaths of his lord ripped through the air much like his claws did ahead of him, snatching away yet another human being. There was a sharp muffle of her screeching as one hand smothered her mouth, surely dragging her wildly, _viciously_ by the head and torso. Her hair stuck to the musician's oily, cursed skin as it flung violently back with the sudden force.

The air was emptier yet so, very full of something inexplicably way too much for any mortal soul to bear, and every syllable cried- every **drop** that began to pour down until a drizzle turned into a hurricane with each leap Bendy made to capture his prophet's sacrifice- became louder than sound itself. Oh, so familiar. Oh, so glorious dreadful like watching heaven tear open and pour out its oily rain and broken veins till blood both red and black shed.

It was happening all over again, and somehow it felt even worse.

Indeed, as the demon dragged her into his portal in one fell swoop- feeling her fingers gasp desperately at his suspenders before being pried off almost as soon as they came and failed to never let go- he could hear Francine scream.


	73. A Wayward Soul

**73- A Wayward Soul**

" _For the thing that I fear comes upon me, and what I dread befalls me."_ – Job 3:25

* * *

This chapter of Sammy's life as of late began like any other, with him calling out either the name of his newfound friend or that of their eternal inky god.

But it had never been that they had been uttered together.

 _Never_ had it been quite like this.

" _INK DEMON!"_

He couldn't feel his chest. Where did he take her?! What…what was to happen to her?

He had heard, he admitted, time after time of people of sinful flesh that fell into the talons of his lord. He never saw what occurred-

But he could only assume blood was shed.

That's why, of course, it was so amazing- even prophetic- of the demon to leave her not only spared but healed when Sammy offered her as a sacrifice what now felt so long ago- for his hymns to be heard, her wonder to live on to grace him. The same ruthless deity that killed and took souls to the puddles had then become the one that watched over her tender spirit, even gifting her his blessings of an old, comforting life.

 _That_ was the same god as he who took her away.

Sammy could not deny that this was he known to take time and time and time again. To his horror, in a split second suddenly the demon's continual saviorhood of her- bestowing Francine to the prophet's care…-

Perhaps did not make her special after all.

His lord unfathomably had come to remind something Sammy had forgotten in the lull of disciplehood:

 **He was the demon, and she was still his sheep.**

No parable they learned, no shake of their faith had ever changed the truths this world held long before Francine communed with Sammy and the studio. She may have turned upside down over, and over, and over again- until the chaos simply felt like tides pulling over the soul and their back and forth between peace and distress became akin to a dance- but Sammy began to fear that maybe, just maybe, that touching the fingertips of mortality would not keep it from dying in his arms.

Just as he did when Henry was in his fold, Sammy suddenly felt the world fall apart around him- as if the walls of the studio where barely keeping its streams of chaos and death in at its fragile seams.

" _FRANCINE!"_

The ink man cried blindly into the corridors of the studio, a hand clinging to the wall. But it was not literal blindness that marked him, no; the mask's broken strap was retied around the back of his head, a cartoon face in front of his own showing no harm besides merely a bit more of a scrape across one of the pie-cut eyes.

No, this lack of sight was because as he began to creep to the edge of knowing something, he now couldn't see any of it at all.

It made his heart pound, his lungs heave, and his lips tremble. All so dissonant, all so unbelievable what she had done and said those seconds before being ripped from his arms-

…That he just simply couldn't think about it.

And that's where we find him now, his best friend vacant from his existence- his life abruptly not unlike how it had been for decades before, and yet its return no longer a biding for release but now a desperate chase for it. The pipes quivering all around him like they had a racing pulse, too. One foot in front of the other, his own shadow chasing him, he was helpless but to drag himself to the alter of his lord and beg him for mercy. His stress stained the floor, his own body melting maybe like never before. The man couldn't ignore this was oh so familiar to how his sacrifice failed carried herself in her first steps into the domain of ink and black magic- helpless, weak, and so very, very unsure of what was yet to come after something so horrifically glorious as their demon's grace.

But as much as he put forth effort only into the prayers in his mind and the beckoning upon his tongue, the thoughts of the heart knew that nothing would ever be the same.


	74. Upon Death's Door

**74- Upon Death's Door**

"' _See, O LORD, for I am in distress; My spirit is greatly troubled; My heart is overturned within me, For I have been very rebellious. In the street the sword slays; In the house it is like death.'"_ – Lamentations 1:20

* * *

The hum of death is a beautiful, awful thing, and no place knew it better than Joey Drew Studios. The way it vibrated was like a siren call to the river Styx, its quivering the rigor mortis of a soul much bigger than a single person was meant to contain…-

But of course, it was not one person who died but very, very many.

Sammy tried not to remember this as he prayed to his god that one would remain alive.

 _Drip._

 _Drip._

 _Drip._

No matter how far away, each drop of the broken pipes felt like it was falling right onto the man's liquid spine. It was as if being of the same body and blood, he could feel the spirits of the puddles crawling inside him with each passing second, with every hollow, quiet crash of ink.

Like he was in the puddles all over again.

 _Drip._

God…

Lord…

Please don't let her be there.

 _Drip._

Please don't let her be there.

Not the puddles.

 _Drip._

His god had finally taken her, and there were only two choices he could see:

That she would ascend to something greater. What was greater…being uncertain. He could only determine it to be unfathomable.

The other choice, the other weight on Francine's scale?

That their time hand in hand was a parable to be lived through- merely a lesson for the straying prophet to take to heart- that the mortality he craved was good indeed, and it was something he was to receive after this.

Very.

Sacrifice.

Indeed, it was possible that her mark as a lamb to the slaughter was not removed with his lord's lingering over her dying body…

…But rather remained to prophesy the beginning of her end.

Sammy felt so sick knowing that he had considered this before, in the times of quiet with her eyes closed and her body at rest. He'd look upon her and in the back of his mind would think:

" _He may come. Any second, he may come. And from this hell we will both be set free."_

But as they not only passed but cherished time together, Sammy slowly began to see a salvation…with her. Within a world of true, natural light touching his skin and kissing her face until it glinted not like the black which he was carved of but rather with something so familiar yet so far away that he being trapped outside of reality could only feel that what _was_ real was in truth totally, utterly magical.

Her world was _real._

And so was she.

And as the light of her candle soul flickered out of his sight more and more with each panicked step, Sammy felt the stab of wondering if he'd ever want to be set free without her…

His faith had led him to want sacrifice, but faith in _her_ made him fear its completion.

 _Drip._

With every smile, every frown, every glint in her eye that only someone so human could contain, the doubts of her healing were pushed back while they were in each other's company, and he began to trust that maybe someone like her could belong here- with him- after all.

But of course, they weren't above ground yet, and so the drop that came upon him with revelation of impossible expectations hit so, so hard.

 _Drip._

He could feel the hollow sockets in his skull trembling. He had never seen anyone die himself- not someone of flesh- but he could still _see it._

…See it happen to _her._

And long habituated to the sounds of maiming- screaming, howling, and ripping- Sammy suddenly had reason to match them to possibilities. Stolen life could now have a face, and it was the same spotted one that looked at him every time he was unsure what to do.

She heard her scream over and over and over. That same scream as when he saw her last.

And if their god loved her, the prophet was growing less and less certain what that love really meant.

 _Drip._

Whatever he did to her.

If she ended up there- in the puddles-…

…Sammy started to imagine himself going after her.

Would he die again at the hands of his master simply to chase for a woman special no more?

The more his own body melted underneath him, the raspier his breath- the more sure he became. If their god took her away, even as a lesson, he'd go back to the place he hated most. She couldn't be alone.

He could never let her be alone again.

Sin.

Sin.

 _Sin._

Each turn he made was wrong. He wanted to trust his god, and he strived to achieve what he believed the dark lord wanted. He was punished, in turn, for not one attempted shedding of blood but two. And so he strove to prove himself to the ink demon by becoming the steward of whom he had spared. Tempted by all she had shown him of both her and himself, he chased after who has was, and now the woman was gone too. It should have been no surprise that a man so profoundly aware of every last molecule of himself to be damned that he wanted to abide by his horrific flesh and join his friend in the hell to which he belonged.

Perhaps this was retribution for seeking out the angel- the keeper of the knowledge of evil and she who blasphemed against the way of the demon the most- to ask her who he was before the ink-…

…

Everything stilled.

Air left his frozen lungs, and all he heard was his own body and blood- both from his own form and the pieces of himself in the black coated glass- falling to the wood.

 _Drip…_

 _Drip…_

… _Sin._

Sometimes the sinners need saints worse than they, and so with the discomfort of religious doubts and a life's upheaval wrapping around him like a ribbon of wind, the preacher with no flock ran to heaven's devil without daring to speak another word to the walls.

* * *

How can someone made of emptiness feel even colder than before?

Sammy asked himself this as he trudged towards the seraph's lair, one burdened step at a time as the oil of his body seemed to attempt a retreat back to the well of souls with each second, every thought. A trail of black followed the shepherd, splatters shaken with even the slightest movement off of arms and legs so shaken from the inside out. He kept silent, he himself unsure if he was noiseless as not to be caught in the misdeed lest there be consequences, or if he was simply and purely ashamed of what he was about to do.

If he was returning to that which precipitated his friend's taking, certainly the musician had reason to feel so about a return.

But what choice did he have?

None, and he knew it.

 _Her_ reaction, of course, required much more evaluation.

As she toyed with the near-corpse of a Piper strapped to a table, small electric bursts still twitching extremities, Alice kept her back turned as she heard Sammy enter, at first pretending to continue to busy herself with the experiments of becoming whole again. Although she knew deep down that such efforts had been for nothing for a damn long time.

She could recognize that sniveling without looking, and in her…curiosity of his coming, she allowed no barriers to hold him.

Shoulder blades shined as the colorless woman felt his stare and the shadow of the room shadow slide across her profile with her readjusting posture. Alice didn't know what to think of this- his disgusting slithering, his dropped jaw- and so it was not something she could ignore.

"What the hell do you-"

And as she turned to face him, that one eye of hers widened.

Indeed, the angel was witnessing a man melting before her very eyes- and not by her own hand. Her eyes sharpened as she scrutinized her enemy, lips parted. But to solidify her own sense of self, a look of upset at such an appearance soon was wiped away by a snarl.

"…What is it?"

And even after more than a lifetime of living in the same confines of twisted fate as he, Alice still never saw it coming.

As soon as two eyes painted and one sculpted met, Sammy threw himself at her. A hand threw back and a feminine voice cracked in two screamed at being touched not only by the substance but also the _person_ she hated most.

She was just about to kill him when she abruptly noticed what he was doing.

One grasp firmly, desperately on her forearm and the other quivering in palm, the hand poised to swiftly strike with divine retribution froze in the air as Alice saw Sammy fall to his knees and bow his head.

Sniveling was one thing, but never had she heard him… _cry._

"A-Alice!" Is there even a word to describe how he sounded as he finally spoke? A voice quiet like a whisper but so loud with dismay? "She's- She…- _Francine!"_

Her fingers made a sudden jerk as he gripped hers even tighter, but they did not pull away.

"Francine…-" he tried again, verbalizing the impossible, "My lord! Taken! Francine _\- taken!"_

Alice could barely see a gaping expression matching hers as that wretched mask finally turned up to face her. His own soma leaked from underneath the cover of that smile, a now flimsy shelter for his shameful, pitiful veracities of belief.

So much time together and yet it was only now Sammy found their common ground. It didn't begin nor end with the stolen woman but she did, very, very much, encompass what Sammy and Alice both wished for most in a world where they could have nothing they wanted.

And so he had crawled to the deity at war to his own, accepting that even someone he spent so long despising maybe could love Francine and all she became to them, too. So yet again, Sammy made himself vulnerable with she who he dreaded to reveal to his softest spots to strike.

As he seized her so tight, the angel couldn't discern if this oozing of tar was his alone or if she was melting along with him and his dripping hands, too.

"Angel-…my lord… _he-…"_ Teeth bared as the jagged hole of broken into another set's cartoon row showed a mouth stretching with anguish and appall. What was said next could hardly be heard at all, both in its volume and in its awful truth.

" _He took Francine."_

The last reverberations of his quivering voice fell apart with utterance of the unbelievable. The humming of the pipes was the silence now- a subtle, all-consuming aura that surrounded prophet and seraph, eating away every last scrap of comfort they had found in the presence of a woman now gone.

Sammy felt veins filled not with blood but something so much unholier rush up and down his neck, throbbing until it rattled his skull and began to blur the image of the angel ahead, but no amount of horror of his could spare him from seeing her own dawning comprehension.

Somehow, an empty socket and a filled one could match each other in expressing a hollowed spirit.

Two sides of a mouth so unalike now mirrored the same gaping terror.

An ink-gloved hand still raised midmotion slowly…slowly…curled until closed.

And the last thing he saw was an expression of shock turn into one of rage as a closed fist slammed into his jaw with every ounce of blame he had coming.


	75. Goliath

**75- Goliath**

" _From the end of the earth I call to you when my heart is faint. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I…"_ \- Psalm 61:2

* * *

" _This is all your FAULT!"_

That's what Alice Angel screamed as Sammy was knocked back by a punch dead into the side of his face. A yelp, a skid, and a splatter, and then Sammy was left with his legs outstretched, one arm dangling limp in front of a leaning torso and the other pointlessly coming up to feel where her knuckles hit- as if whether or not his body shed ink would even matter. As much as Sammy loathed himself- certainly more than any purely human body would allow- Alice's response left him utterly perplexed…-

…And considering how strained and stressed their limited time was now, totally outraged.

"How could I have stopped the ink demon from ripping her out of my arms?!" Sammy demanded, balling his own fists not to hit back but to prepare himself for retaliation.

And it came. Just as he shouted back, this very same upset would bounce right back at him, her voice echoing not only down the hall but straight into his heart and head.

"That's not what I meant, and you KNOW it, you _damn bastard!"_

With Sammy having stumbled backwards with her blow before, its deliverer had plenty of space to step down from the stage, literally stooping down to his level. Her approach- her still clutched fists by her sides- forced the man to take a step back, and then… then came something she had kept inside for a long, long time, even as many two voices in one still straining to accept what they carried off her tongue.

"YOU… _lulled_ her into trusting the demon- into trusting this… _hell!"_ the angel began to seethe, blame twisting her expression into a scowl. "When I first saw her- saw her coming to me on her own after knowing you decided she's somehow yours… _I was so scared._ Back then, I was scared she was like Henry- that she would simply… _take from me, too,_ and that since you even encouraged her to know the ink demon, that maybe she would in some foolish hope take from me for his sake. But now I realize…there's SO much more to be afraid of than that, and I still managed to pick the wrong reason to fear."

As one voice strayed into the other back and forth- like rocking from one train of thought into another- one eye and one socket pinched together into something that resembled Susie more than Alice had allowed herself to show before…no less in front of the man that took not only a superficial shred of joy so many decades ago the angel could have used before crossing into their limbo…but also, she believed, he who permitted another woman to be taken from the little she had left, too.

" _She had a safe place. She could have stayed._ God, she could have STAYED in your _PATHETIC_ hidey hole and never look back upon the rest of this wretched world that wished her DEAD! But she wanted to leave… _of course, she wanted to leave._ _We all do._ And you trusted the demon so much that you felt her safe to fly into the spider's web all on her own…"

Of course, this web referred to Alice- the black widow of the studio's dusty cobwebs- but finally as Sammy studied her face, watching her justified rant, something clawed inside him that this could be other dangers too. The searchers, the butchers, the…-

And with satisfaction, she set forth one final sentence to finish fabricating that worry into reality just for him to bask in, surrounding him with not only the truth but with the worst of it…that he _deserved_ to hear:

"…But you should have been terrified all along that the demon would finish what he started."

The silence was all-consuming, almost as much as Sammy's deity and his craving for lost souls to drag to the puddles had proven to be. It wasn't only in spite of his care for the woman but alongside it that the man had abided by such folly. He protected her by the definition of caring not only her body but her heart; so easily was he swayed by her desires to be at peace with the world in which she was trapped for who knows how long.

…But now they knew how long could maybe be so, very short thanks to his and Francine's assurance in the demon, and so the angel prepared her finishing strike for someone already down for the count. Maybe so much venom had been released in their last meeting in her explanation for hating him in the past, but now she had one concise truth for why she hated him now.

"You are a shepherd, my dear, naïve Lawrence," she spitefully, ragefully relished to inform him as the worst of possibilities came true, "And you led your lamb to the slaughter."

Something so long coming- something he sang and prayed for day after day for decades, desired himself to pass- should not have landed upon his shoulders and knock wind from his lungs as suddenly as it did.

In that second, everything he had done- all the sense it made to him, all the intricate strings that wove together the flowing cloth of fate made from each decision, each thought, each emotion that led up to this moment…-

…Didn't make sense to him at all.

It was like walking upon a path and looking back only to find that the view behind was nothing like looking ahead, even if you were already there to witness it. But despite the chaos of a racing mind, there was one distinct belief that made its way to his tongue in a desperate attempt to explain it all, to justify what led him here, and without his friend:

"…I just wanted her to be happy."

So quietly muttered, so shameful like sin. And as he said it, he realized that so long ago…he was right. When Francine's decided to journey for the demon, Sammy simply looked on and thought to himself that maybe being happy isn't as important as the patience of faith. Of course, he too, eventually, tried to search for happiness like she, and what did that make him?

Hardly happy at all.

But even if Alice knew his story, it wouldn't stop her from driving the point home like a knife in his chest- that was what he deserved after sentencing her to a life sentence in the same purgatory they've had… that they prayed she could avoid, hope against hope.

"Well now she can be happy being dead. That is…unless we still have time to do something about it."

Somehow a statement both relieving- she'd help, Alice would help-! And yet so very, very grave, reeking with death either coming or already starting to rot as they idled about to speak.

Skeptical, the seraph took yet another step forward- scrutinizing, flickering her one eye up and down in a lack of assurance while the gaping holes in her head somehow seemed to beg he not even receive a chance to explain himself.

"I…do assume you coming to me can only mean you must doubt your… _'lord's'_ decision to take her?" Even if it was inflected as a question, both could see through the shadows the truth of her words; if there was any lack of assurance that he wasn't ready to do something- dare it be said something against what his god willed…- she might be as good as gone no matter what they tried.

Of course, a man whose life was painted by the brush of faith never framed a picture like before, much less on his desperate way to see the keeper of his last hope. After all, the heresy of suicide to a soul such as his already gone was very…very different than actively stepping into the destiny God sets forth to take place. His eyes fell to the floor, and silence took over once again, choking his mouth until not even the most guttural, primal of reactions to such violent upheaval of his existence could sound into the dark. Alice normally would have relished such an opportunity- to force him to verbally agree to abandon his god entirely in order to save the woman he protected in his name and, finally, finally hearing him say he was wrong- but there simply wasn't the time. And it seemed like he might be doing it already on his own.

"Good," the angel answered to promises unspoken.

"…Where do we begin?" he finally answered with a hush hardly a whisper, so hollowed with the idea of disobeying and yet unsure how to go on any other way. His mask- that mask, the one a master had bestowed upon his prophet so he may gaze upon glory- it was now being used to accept and ponder in his heart what Sammy had always considered evil.

Sharply, however, one gloved hand raised up with a point intended to silence, the other coming to her chin in contemplation. As level as she appeared, panic crawled her skin inside out, shaking her insides already so delicately and barely put together in the first place. This was serious; of course, so many of her efforts constantly threatened with the waiting arms of the puddles and starting all over again were grave matters, too...

But with Francine, however, it wasn't coming back that was the trouble. It's different to start over as Alice did into a base state, but Francine? _Truly_ starting over is what this first, most crucial death would be, becoming something with absolutely nothing left that was her own.

Everything Alice cherished and had privately, secretively wished to maintain- that had survived despite inky death's disgusting reach for the girl's soul…

 _That_ _was at stake._

Alice couldn't be human again. She knew it. But she still treasured that which she had strived so hard to emulate, and for the young woman's body to die but her soul to live on- to be…connected to the wails and aches and the _god-DAMN_ sensation of your mind swirling and swirling away forever into nothingness…-!

"Shut up and let me think!" she barked, uncaring if it was really at he or her own trepidation.

Heart racing and lips slightly parted, the man with no ideas yet so many, many clambering worries was helpless but to watch the wisdom he called upon pace the room, her growing panic radiating until he began to fear himself if she who purposefully tempted and toyed with the demon before had any wisdom about him at all.

 _Snap!_

Both her fingers and her posture changed to fit this word; briefly, the image of this woman drained of color was impressed into Sammy's mind- undeniably, a striking glow about her of determination and a very, very hesitant yet still brilliant hope.

It enthralled him so greatly that it slowed by half a second his reaction to her speeding out of the room. The sight of the dying again Piper flickered in his peripheral before he too left that only witness behind.

"Where are we going?!"

The straying shadows of the halls flew over them one by one like migrating gulls, lines of dullness and glimmerings that played with the tones of oil and paper that built up a man made of ink and a broken doll from discarded mortality. The walls groaned with the sound of the pipes as they weaved down the tight halls and then sprawled out into the room of corpses, like searchers were coming to life inside of them. The gulf of ink seemed to quiver just a little more as the two traversed over wooden plank bridges, like invisible drops were being added slowly, one by one to disrupt the usual stillness of the black lake. She didn't even look back to address Sammy, allowing the click of her shoes and the slosh of his feet to converse in their place until- in the most quiet, willful divulgence of schemes normally kept to herself…-

"There's only _ONE_ thing that even has a sliver of a chance against the ink demon! Only _ONE_ of these monsters among us that has no sense to leave him alone if they happen upon each other…and the only one that has the strength to give the demon anything that even resembles a fight."

Before Sammy knew it, he had followed her into the elevator once again so very soon, watching light gloss the length of her thumb as it jabbed into the button that read "14."

* * *

If Sammy had ever been down here, it hadn't been a time he could remember. It was a room that once you stepped out and stood atop of its tower, looking down upon the abyss of ink, it was like entering a giant, gaping wound. While she rushed out, his arrival was slow, gasping as he saw how simply…vast it was before him; it was like looking down upon their universe itself, witnessing ink cover and shine across the floor far below and flow into two rooms he couldn't see into from where he stared.

"Fool! Keep! _MOVING!"_

Of course, Alice was on edge, but the atmosphere didn't help. There was one pipe in the corner of the massive chamber that continued to _drip, drip, drip_ as she stormed down, down, down.

It was like hearing a clock tick, and each passing second brought with it more and more traces of the possibility this is all for nothing and Francine was already as good as dead. It was so nerve-wracking that she couldn't even recall if that drip was there before in the most recent time she had traversed this forsaken level.

And as Sammy finally scurried down close behind, he would learn that this place felt so ominous to him for a very good reason.

The splash of ink against his legs as he navigated across the wide hall was so haunting, so…emptying; he could feel it- he could feel it trying to pull him back in. He couldn't let that happen. Any day but today. Any time but now. And so against the reaches of the wanting, selfish grasps of the puddles bleeding from the floor into his soul, he ripped his legs again and again up and out until-…

Until…well…he wasn't sure. It seemed endless. His chest felt paralyzed, as if it didn't want him to breathe, and each labored step left him wondering if he could keep up with the angel- who was more and more looking less like a person and more like a flicker of a shape up again. Almost as if his lord's aura was in his mind, once again fading, consuming shadows ate at the corners of his sight.

But at the same time, everything felt so much brighter, too, as the prophet caught these glimpses of the most innocent form his god chose to take.

But then one of the clunky devices that streamed the cartoons _moved,_ and that was when Sammy finally comprehended maybe not where he was but precisely what they had came for.

How funny how you couldn't have given Sammy anything in the world before this moment to get him to agree to see the projectionist by his own accord.

The being Sammy had only come across in either coincidence or thanks to a will not of his own cocked that machine that either replaced a skull of covered it to the side, intense light glowing over a seraph and a preacher until they couldn't even see each other's corrupt faces. Sammy could note, however, that while his own body quaked with fear- aware of this creature that held an incredible, otherworldly ability no one else but his lord possessed, walking through walls with no seeming point besides to terrorize that in his path as he searched for…something, something surely he'd never find down in the depths of hell-…

…Alice was calm. Almost as if his presence was not a danger but a relief.

" _Norman."_

That lit-up gaze so firmly upon the man struggling to keep an already melting form from sinking into the pool beneath them finally shifted to the woman that called his real, true name. This was a very different meeting than their last; instead of coming alone to confess the everlasting pains in her heart about a man that prodded her into such aching discomfort, she brought him with her.

And looking lost in one way now came across as something totally other.

With a cock of his head that appeared to be listening, Sammy gasped once more as he saw not one pair of hands but two lift as Alice guided fingers much bigger than her own to grasp around her jaw.

" _ALICE-!"_ Sammy instinctively yelped at the contact of such massive, ruthless hands upon her already torn face, but soon he was interrupted by both a one-eyed glare from one person ahead and a mouthless screech of the other. With a grunt he took a step back, shocked and amazed, and the two strange friends stared their spite into him just a second longer before a halo bounced back to face the light.

"I need-" she began, once more, the effort to ease the sound of her own voice obvious, _"-You to help us_."

A small crackle, Norman's eyeless gape moving from one intruder to the other. Sammy saw her jaw tremble slightly as the projectionist's hands began to roam her face. He assumed that this touch meant he could- unbelievably- attempt to feel her words in place of hearing them, a deaf man finding a way to somehow communicate without ears or a voice of his own.

But of course, he heard Francine almost guess as much herself.

Alice bit back her own uncertainty if after all these years he could ever hear her as they did this at all.

"I need-" she repeated, a firm desperation more tangible as one palm held her cheek and the other grazed over her lips, "-You to help us…fight the demon."

A long, long silence. Perhaps she expected more in response- maybe so did Sammy, but his mulling over that impossible utterance of fighting the _demon_ distracted him enough to not ponder it for long. When nothing more changed but the lingering of dust motes through the gradually dimming ray from Norman's face, Alice decided it was time to get to the point.

And from what she knew of his experience with the mortal woman, Alice hoped it would be enough for the projectionist to agree to a what can only be described as a fool's errand.

" _She's gone. Francine. He took her."_

A small twitch, his light flickering brighter with a few quiet ticks of machinery, but her eye wasn't squinting and her mouth wasn't grimacing because of anything the metallic man had done. No, it was herself- what she was forcing herself to say just like Sammy did not even thirty minutes before.

Her own hands smoothed over his, begging maybe as much as her voice as his grasp moved one set of fingers towards her eye and horn while the other caressed her cheek.

"The best chance we have to keep her from being killed, too… _is you."_

As other hearts stayed still upon the floor, the one in Sammy's chest pounded so hard he wasn't sure if nothing more was said after that or if his pulse simply drowned it out. Before him, the monster so painfully slowly began to drop his hands from the angel's face to let them dangle by his sides; if Norman could, in fact, understand language, then surely this would have been a conveying of complete and utter shock.

And it did, indeed, seem to match such a response.

One foot stumbled back.

Then another.

And then another.

Alice found her own arms falling as well with the projectionist's release, and soon she and Sammy were mirrored as they watched at the man and prayed that however he chose to react would be in their-…no, _her_ favor.

And when Norman was a good two meters or so away from the two cursed wanderers that had asked a third to find their fourth, he allowed his light to filter over them until its luster eventually even faded so far as to fall onto the door of the Little Miracle Station, a pathetic piece of wood ripped from its and allowing ink to lap over its edges since the very first time he met Francine.

Alice and Sammy would have believed if they were told their own hearts were dissected and thrown to the floor, too, after the projectionist made use of a power they hoped to have had on their side, the only soul that could even stand a second against Bendy then simply turning to a solid wall and walking right through it to heaven knows where.

So very soon, a man and woman were alone once more as they stood against God himself, the pipe in the distance dripping as it knew fully well they could feel each and every second slip away.


	76. A Jealous God

**Author's Note:** This chapter is part of a two-parter in celebration of the Hymns AU turning a year old on November 9 (or tomorrow, as I am posting this). Expect the next chapter tomorrow on the anniversary! It's going to be _very_ special.

 **76- A Jealous God**

" _Then the LORD said to Moses, 'Stretch out your hand toward the sky so that darkness spreads over Egypt – darkness that can be felt.'"_ – Exodus 10:21

* * *

They didn't have time for futile feelings, Sammy found as he and the angel began marching once again down the corridors of paper, wood, and ink.

"So we are simply going to keep…wandering like this until he comes?" Incredulous, almost biting. Wasting time-! Was this the best they could do?!

"Yes. He'll come. _He always comes when I'm out too long."_ It's simply a matter of fact, but still spoken so bitterly from a woman cursed to never feel free to leave her shelter, be it the demon, the searchers, or the gang. "Either that or we…find him first."

A pause.

"And her," she added, maybe an assurance more for herself than to him.

"…I don't…expect her to be with him if he does come to greet us," Sammy confessed.

"Me neither. But it's this and hoping we can reach back to where he took her from there…or nothing…well, besides destroying those infernal cutouts. But we're no help to Francine in the puddles if we decide to pick a fight with him."

How ironic, considering they plead with Norman to try to do so only moments before. But having the demon mad at him as they tried to reach Francine would have been far different from having the god become enraged at _them._

Having no idea what the projectionist left to do- if his escape was a conscious decision or merely one like overwhelming a nonsentient beast, the angel and prophet united only for love of one unlike them both were helpless but to be vulnerable in hopes that somehow, this would set her free-

A flicker of light from a crossroads a long distance away.

Alice gasped and felt hair hit the side of her face with her jump, and Sammy felt his skin crawl in anticipation.

…

…

Nothing more.

With renewed urgency, a hand reached back for Sammy and lurched him forward as she continued the same way, ensuring he was dragged behind even despite his melting, stressed body and unsureness of faith and what having it was meant to be. Almost as if it existed to heighten her own rising panic, Alice Angel noticed little things in their world getting louder and louder, more and more upset just like she.

The dripping of ink was faster.

The creaks of the floorboards threatened more and more a desire to break beneath them.

Everything was darker, and no shadow stood still.

… _Something was not right._

Another noise, another light causing the two to jump once more and skid to a halt. Alice put a finger to her shredded lips, and Sammy's flat eyes searched about in prayer that their lord's inky webbing would crawl over the walls once more.

…

…A small noise. A single footstep, a falling board?

…

…

Nothing more.

And despite Sammy's trepidation, they moved towards the noise instead of away.

"Demon…!" his new companion taunted in a sing-song tone, swallowing back her fear to try to sound as coy as possible. "I'm wandering all alone! I thought that was a sin. Won't you come see…?"

Sammy cringed, and so did Alice, but the demon still did not come.

Or maybe he had, because a hallway they had surely crossed before now only had a blank wall where a path used to be.

* * *

Usually nothing so weighty fell upon studio floors, was on its own so loud and invasive. In some ways, it was a blessing that Norman choose the refuge of his cove; the ink muted his heavy steps, the walls didn't carry his screeching voice, and the maze kept him busy, busy, busy- ambling eternally with ever-changing sensations and stimuli for a mindless being to react to with only the interruption of those foolish enough to knowingly travel down and step in his way.

As the projectionist chose now, though, to leave the presence of the two who sought him out, one could only wonder if that was a decision of logical sense or merely physical sense. Was he out here, looking for Francine as they plead for? Was he upset at the news, and unwilling to banish them from his lair simply left it himself to grieve a woman surely lost to the same ink that took him too? Or did he even know or feel anything at all, and merely was confronted with too much at once- like an animal backing into a corner and escaping to anywhere- anything- that would relieve the overwhelm of not one visitor but an unheard of two?

Kismets must have found it did not matter, as it all turned out the same regardless.

The studio noticed this deviance- this… _difference._ It was _unsettling._ It was _unsure._

So it sought to correct it, now that there be a need. There couldn't be chances- not now, especially not now.

A small sputter erupted from the speaker in the headless man's chest as his gleaming, seeing ray of light turned a corner and fell upon a wall. Now, normally this was nothing so unsettling to Norman; previously he'd had staggered into one of who knows how many dead-end nooks in his labyrinth. When such happened, all that would occur in response was a short stare- a contemplation of the texture of wood bars, of hearts and corpses left upon the floor- and he'd eventually set forth once more the way he came.

But this was different.

He may not have known this new maze like the back of his ink-soaked hand, but even the basest of sensations couldn't mistake what he witnessed.

Unquestionably, just a sliver of a second- Norman caught the wall ahead as it finished building itself up in front of a path that went far further than it intended him to go.

Maybe it was because he knew something was behind it.

Maybe he was merely frustrated.

Regardless, the pipes carried all of the sound, force, and fury of a man that didn't want to be contained by no choice but his own, releasing the cracking of wood underneath slamming knuckles and a cry so loud it could break glass.

* * *

Sammy felt the noise crawl up his spine, the distant thump of something crashing in the distance; it sounded the way aching bones felt- somehow distant yet close, softened yet sharp. A yelp escaped his lips and made him jump in place, shoulders tensing and fingers parting as his mask turned every which way, searching for its direction.

As he did, however, he noticed the darkness at the edge of his sight- always there but not always blinding- grow a more prominent border around his vision.

But a coming obscuring had arrived to late, and Sammy finally noticed what Alice did.

" _Something isn't right."_

The black and white angel thrown from heaven into hell knew very well what the latter was like. This world may have been terrible, but it had been calm. Calm ever since Henry finally left one way or another.

She got a taste of it slipping back previously, when Francine ran and ran down the path of the demon, the universe falling apart under her feet. Such revelation as it appeared again now made her eye widen with fear, as if it caught in its reflection the truth not seen with eyes alone. A whisper, a whisper of something she didn't know she had always prayed to never live through once more:

" _It's happening all over again."_

Any further revelation or explanation to the man beside was interrupted, a familiar but so much more haunting croak travelling much too far, much too clear for physical possibilities. The breaking pipes carried the utterances of beasts, and in a single moment one by one the pipes that lined the ceiling burst open in upset.

In prevention of their meeting and finding whatever turmoil lay ahead, the flurry of ink closed in from a _crack, crack, CRACK_ from either side of the hallway, trapping the two in place.

Surely the ink was going to rain down upon them, and being made from the same blood as the machine they were to simply melt away-

No.

When the final break occurred- two ends inevitably meeting right where they stood, the ink blinded them, pushed them down…

And pulled away from their eyes to somewhere they couldn't cause trouble.

Flailing arms couldn't push back a flood, and shouts couldn't fight back the rush of liquid void.

It had never been so obvious in all their lives that the studio itself seemed to have a mind and magic far beyond whatever curse penetrated to their own souls as the spitting ink swallowed them and blew them away from the entrails of the building into the clearing of Heavenly Toys, even when it was nowhere in sight.

* * *

Norman's fist flew once more into the wall, its wood texture and smiling poster doing nothing to deter the violence of a man interfered.

A lack of response only seemed to stir up more from him; his fingers pulled in and out at their knuckles with either pain, stiffness, or a desire for improvement from a hand that failed not once but twice to destroy the barrier ahead.

With either bone or mechanics crackling in it, too, his giant hand pulled back, clenched once more, and aimed dead center for that Bendy's teasing grin.

… _Crack!_

… _Crack!_

… _Crack-_

And the glove of the demon reached out hold a leathery fist at bay, not even half an inch from contacting a flat, unmoving smile.

Right before him, that same face staggered into reality, the projectionist greeted by a swarm of pulsing black stains and rainfall of ink as a shape used his form as an anchor to drag itself out of the page.

The dancing demon finally came out to play.

* * *

Somehow far too quiet and way too loud, the entrance of the toy shop making a man and woman feel like they were dolls simply placed to and fro with the whim of a child.

At first it was overwhelming to the point they froze as if they couldn't move on their own. So tall. So empty. Only plushes, cutouts, stairs, and seats to say hello while Sammy and Alice lifted themselves, coughing out ink even though the same material made their own lungs. The room didn't hold a touch of the halls they were within just a second before, and distantly, once again, cries rang out that were surely unhuman.

But if Alice was an incomplete doll still sewing itself together, then she was not to be played with, and with that along with the fire inside that swept over her brighter and stronger with each wind of change- each second of precious humanity ticking away- _precious humanity she had only begun to know she cherished- it was gone, IT'S GOING TO BE GONE, SHE IS GOING TO DIE UNLESS-_

Sammy flew back once again not with a physical force but with the shock, with the fear of destroying what was sacred as Alice attacked the nearest cutout with her bare hands. Going in one direction didn't last long, however, as Sammy either in instinct or common sense threw him around her arms, gripping her wrists tight as the woman's fingers clawed as he held them in the air.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

The broken half of her face came to see him, hatred for the image ahead burning once more for the same upon his mask.

Determination.

Even for a woman defined by that word- fighting and working every day for her life to be what she wanted to be- this was a moment where maybe never before had it meant so much to her.

"PUDDLES BE DAMNED! I ALREADY LOST IT ALL! I'M GOING TO BRING HIM TO ME EVEN IF I HAVE TO DIE AGAIN TO DO IT! NOW LET-"

Her elbow swung forward.

" _-GO OF ME!"_

Her elbow swung back, a blow right into chest that forced Sammy to loosen his grip and stagger.

And Alice set forth to scar and demolish the face of the demon until it stopped him from doing the same to Francine.

* * *

Yet another cry from Norman Polk, either disturbed or satisfied as he finally could let loose ferocity against a being that would fight back.

Exchange for exchange, tooth and nail from a creature with one and a creature with the other. The sounds of violence filled the air with voiceless utterances and flesh pounding against something not skin.

But nothing is mightier than a god, not even those without the sense to run while they still could.

 _Thud, thud-_

 _ **Smack!**_

Something akin to a car crash rang as a projector head was thrown back, something like the screech of brakes sounding as the demon wrapped a paw around his neck.

And placed the other on the source of his searchlight.

A quick jerk upward and a decapitation-

…

…

Left unfinished.

Norman scrambled up to his feet as soon as he hit the floor, but it wasn't in time. The demon silently made his leave, the projectionist's hands pounding into a wall just as the coming darkness ate the lord's presence and faded as soon as it came…

* * *

…Only for it to return.

Sammy noticed it first, but of course he would.

A prophet knows his god.

"My- my lord, my-!"

He couldn't even finish.

But Alice could.

Gasping for air with the effort of destruction, Alice's gaze became sharp with dread-

But then, a smile sliced into her face.

"Demon…there you are."

She wasn't even sure what she was going to next. The desperation of a moment left blank an actual plan for a woman usually so cunning, so ready for anything.

But even as she didn't prepare for this, for once she felt in control and allowed herself to relish it before decades of work went to waste.

Sammy's misshapen foot stepped back, trailing ink underneath like a paintbrush as anxiety took his voice and left him unable to act besides clutching a hand to his chest and wait.

Wait as the aura of their lord swallowed them.

But Alice stood tall against it.

She had _had it._ All he could do was put her back to the beginning, to send her back to the puddles. She framed that as the worst, and it emboldened her to go beyond where she had ever gone.

The shadow of the demon loomed over her, raspy breath falling upon her. Closer, closer, closer-

But then something.

 _Something._

 _ **Something.**_

It wasn't a sound, a sight, or a feeling. It was simply…there- tangible only to the powers of God, and something changed everything. The **splatter** shooting up the walls- over the corners of the ballroom for playthings- **retracted** as fast as a sudden step back.

He stared a second longer before once again leaving prey untouched.

A smile never withered so fast.

"N-no!" At first hopeless, helpless- but then sadness and confusion upon her face warped into comprehension.

He left for a reason. _There must be a reason, something strong enough to distract him from delivering his wrath._

… _Francine-!_

And before Sammy could react Alice lunged for another cutout, believing her still to be alive, believing she could bring him back…

…But belief wasn't enough. Instead of a demon, she brought a storm. As nails streaked off paint from one toon's flat face, its angle curved not because of her wrist but because of her feet falling beneath her.

The world itself quaked.

The sign of "Heavenly Toys" teetered with the trembling universe, a cutting squeak before it crashed to the floor.

The fountain of ink exploded like a volcano to cover every last inch with its black.

But instead of drowning and crushing, disaster behaved like a broken heart.

And the world as they hardly knew it crumbled away.


	77. Diptych

**Author's Note:** This chapter is part of a two-parter in celebration of the Hymns AU turning a year old today (or November 9)! Expect the next chapter tomorrow on the anniversary! It's going to be _very_ special. I heavily recommend that this chapter should be read only directly after or very shortly after reading the one before it, "A Jealous God." If you are reaching this chapter and have had a break in between this one and the one before (probably longer than a day or so), **I think it would be an excellent idea to refresh yourself on the previous chapter before reading this one in order to receive the full impact.**

Thank you, guys, for sticking around. This story isn't over yet, I still have so much left to do before it concludes.

 **77- Diptych**

" _He is a double-minded man, unstable in all his ways."_ – James 1:8

* * *

What's there to live for after you die?

Joey Drew Studios knew the answer to such a…contradictory notion far too well.

Especially so the man after which a buildings of burnt dreams was named.

A scream cut short rang out once more as if it never stopped at all as its owner was thrown to the floor. It echoed- echoed, echoed, echoed. From the perspective of eyes skewed shut, it seemed to go on forever.

The old artist knew it did.

After all, her words did ring deep into his heart; of course, they had to go on forever wall through wall if it went on forever through _him._

That's how it all worked.

The man's lips trembled, but he clenched his fists. His heart pounded, but he forced his gaze soft as her screaming voice began to stop, now heaving breaths one by one like coals into a fire. Such growing quiet was either the beginning of peace or of something much more ominous. He wouldn't blame her either way, but of course hoped for one more than the other.

He didn't ask for this himself, but he supposed he simultaneously did.

 _ **He screams for her.**_

"Be calm. Be still," he prayed, kneeling next to the woman as she arrived not to his office but to the place Francine and Joey first met. In the corner of one eye, the demon remained- barely, barely within sight, shadows covering it until it was like it was on the edge of reality.

In the corner of the other, an ocean of ink had grown unsettled. Awareness- an awareness of change.

He could handle change. He had to.

A tinge of pink caught his gaze, the sudden arrival causing the bag in her clutches to skid across the floor, straps touching the ankles of a table where he sat the woman down and confessed his sins.

Even if he hadn't confessed the all, it was still right. It was still right.

Her before him now was proof that ignorance was bliss.

What was he going to do now-?

No, he knew.

That's why she was here.

"You're safe."

 _ **He falls silent.**_

…Control.

He had control.

That's what he told himself just as Francine finally broke free from the shock, jumping back while laying on the wooden shore with a gasp. Her eyes widened with an expression Joey had seen from her before, but not like this- not for him _directly._

Horror.

As she scrambled back with her bare hands, uncaring if palms became splintered with the movement, Francine gaped at the man, somehow comprehending who he was yet not even grasping a sliver of his true nature at all.

The man behind it all.

The man who took her.

The man who would not let her go.

Joey swallowed back bile as a shine in her eyes told him what he already knew- that _she_ knew. A mouth opened to scream again- right back at him- but that wouldn't help at all.

No, that just wouldn't do.

For every hyperventilating yelp came a shush; the more panicked, sharp her breath became, the softer, firmer arrived his. Francine's shoulder lurched back but shock left her muscles still thawing, and so a reaching father's hand found its place to rest upon her as the other had a single finger come to his lips.

The stolen woman finally had no breath left with which to gasp and cry, and so the force of fear ran from her tongue to her eyes despite the blurring tunnel vision of adrenaline.

A rosy face leaning in closer, cheeks streaked with sideburns the same color as the hair under a black-stained hat. A bowtie of deep blue was strung around his neck like the most gorgeous of nooses. The hand that touched his lips was scarred across the palm, and golden eyes twitched with worry behind half-closed lids.

She had seen all this before, but he couldn't hide yet again that the same light that shone in the ink when you never looked at it too close was the same that slid across the serenely panicking irises ahead.

That sliver of sight into a soul unsteady began to close once more, though, as seconds passed. Finally, her gasping slowed as she marveled at him until it was quiet enough for Joey to begin to speak-

"WHAT THE _FUCK?!"_

As soon as Francine had the sense to focus she had the sense to question. A gentle grasp at her shoulder was promptly thrown aside.

 _ **She strikes him. His mask almost falls off yet again.**_

"Darling-" A level tone tinged with worry quickly interrupted once more.

" _What the hell?!"_

Clambering to her feet, her eyes somehow stayed wide while being pinched with outrage, her fingers clenched, too- but not to calm.

She hadn't calmed at all.

"You- you- you…!"

So accusatory. The waves of their black and brown beach rose just a bit higher before meeting the surface.

"…You _lied to me…!"_

Like a dad coming to comfort a daughter learning that Santa wasn't real far too soon for her age, the pain in his gaze mirrored hers, both sets beginning to gloss over.

"I know. I know. I'm so sorry-"

"NO YOU'RE _NOT!"_

 _ **They leave. She won't say where she's taking them.**_

"Now darling- I told you not to go about wandering for a reason," Joey responded coolly, palms raised up in a gesture of comfort. Of course, it did nothing of the sort.

"Yeah! Of course you did." Maybe the sound from her throat was lesser in volume, but the hiss it produced was somehow so, so much worse- so…venomous. She had every right to be. The young woman's eyes searched over him, taking in every detail with new understanding. "…You didn't want me to know what you're doing."

And then.

Only then-

Did she grasp that knowing you don't know is only the beginning of knowing at all.

And the ways of a woman kept alive only by her desire to comprehend, to shine her flashlight onto each and every dusty cobweb of lost memories and forgotten souls, took over once more.

Only this time, it was so much more personal. The vulnerability made her skin crawl, only now realizing she who had longed to make herself such to others had been visible inside out to Joey likely from the very first second she swooped across the gaze of a cardboard cutout.

Francine felt her blood swarm at her bent elbows and locked knees as the most complex word of all came upon her tongue:

"… _Why?"_

Hands still up twitched slightly, gently, just a bit closer towards the girl, accompanied by a minute cock of the head. He had done this for so long, Joey didn't even comprehend where such a question could even go.

"What do you mean, Frankie-?"

"YOU _KNOW_ WHAT I MEAN, STOP FUCKING WITH ME!"

 _ **He leaves them alone in his cove.**_

Perhaps it was that invasion of privacy- her name, he knew her goddamn name because _she fucking told him_ , of COURSE she had to tell him, and she didn't even know he was right there listening when she whispered it to Sammy- that made her so loud, so bitter and impatient.

If she had waited since she arrived to know why she had to stay, what did that mean for a man who had eighty years to ponder what he had done? What was she but a drop in the bucket?

But even a drop of rain from above can send ripples through an ocean.

Joey cringed, a soft rattle up his spine visible as shoulders tightened and fingers curled shut in front of his chest. With coming anxiety, the cream-colored ghost used the tension upon his body to roll his shoulders back, stand tall, and raise his chin so the unnatural glow of the room made the ink spots upon his glasses more visible than his eyes.

The ink ocean behind Joey witnessing this stopped its small, crashing waves, the upset moving to ripple further in the distance- deeper away into the endless cavern that echoed hurt feelings. The force of it simply made black water lap at the soles of his shoes once more.

He knew this moment was coming for not only as long as she had begun to catch on but for maybe years- _decades_ …and yet he still needed time to compose his thoughts.

Francine, in all her breathlessness, was helpless but to wait for an answer. Everything she puzzled together had to be coaxed piece by piece, but Joey held still so many in his selfish hands.

Where to begin? Life? Death? Together? Alone? Each point in his miserable existence felt so poignant to how he ended up standing where he was now.

But there was, after all, only one reason she was standing where she was. And so a tale with no first page was flipped to the last chapter, praying that a girl of great empathy could show sympathy instead- for herself, for the twist in the story that made his stomach turn upside down with both the rush of hope and the dread of if nothing had changed at all.

He did know her so, very well to expect such.

"I've told you time and time again that this curse is…different with you, Frankie. That it's been kinder." He shook his head. "But you've had no idea what it was like before you stepped in and calmed it down. You deserve to know…why. Why it's different."

And a power beyond his own curse grasped his throat and choked out new belief.

"It's because _you_ are."

And what could she say to that?

So a man forcing himself silent for about as long as a person lives and dies finally let go and spoke all he had adored and dreaded thanks to an intruder of whom he had grown fond.

"In all my years there's never been someone who…arrived for someone else. Out of…kindness. Selflessness, darling- it's not…common. In fact, it gets snuffed out about as soon as it comes to candlelight- like a flame pinched as soon as it's lit. It…grabbed me, Frankie. Grabbed me before anything worse that already happened to you could come and drag you away. Your cousin…oh, that poor boy. You wouldn't have come if you didn't hope to find him here- if you didn't want him back. And even unknowingly…not even if you died trying."

The shadow of his hat- a symbol of his hiding- slid over his nose with a slight downward tilt of his head. Finally, finally, rosy fingers trembled as they clutched its brim, and the darkness over his eyes fell off as a cream, ink-splotted top hat was brought down to his chest in order to contain a heart overflowing.

"And to the very first being you met within this otherworldly nightmare come to consume flesh…you said you didn't want to hurt him…! Do you know how many people arrived, Frankie? Arrived and screamed- and rightfully so- but never once considered that the abominations before them were victims, too?"

She could feel his wandering, marveling gaze as if she was something special. It made every pore of her skin goosebump, like he was trailing a finger over every spot.

But of course, he had seen every spot.

Every moment.

From the beginning.

"And your loving touch only grew and grew as each horror came upon you. As each soul of my studio came and called themselves a monster, you stepped forward and corrected that they were not only a person but a _friend._ Even to me, and I know very well I'm the only one worth calling a monster at all."

A chuckle. It reached his crow's feet- crinkled his face. He hadn't smiled until she came, and it was so very bittersweet every time since but especially so now.

"If the curse is an infection, then at times you…you seem to be the cure. Did you ever notice how upon your second visit to Susie that a staircase was gone when you walked in, but upon your return to Sammy's waiting arms it had healed underneath your feet? How the lights glowed warmer and warmer as it drifted to kiss your skin? How the boards stopped to creak, and the pipes began to hum instead of screech their horrible song?" Another, firmer huff of a laugh- not in humor but in a hollow pain. "Of course not. The world simply seems as good as you feel, my dear. That's the truth."

That hesitant smile eventually found its reason to fade, the glitter in his eyes not leaving but dulling as eyes became slits and left only so much space for hopes and dreams to show.

"And so such a sharp turn into destruction couldn't slip past your nose. The more you found, the more your calm decayed. By the time you came to find me I simply…couldn't allow it any longer."

Stressed fingers gently readjusted around his hat to help recompose.

"Not if it meant that you'd be in danger again."

And with his confession done, a redheaded scalp lost the vulnerability so shortly gained, and that shadow once more like a curtain closed concealed a bleeding heart.

"I don't…expect you to understand, Frankie. This is all far beyond anyone else can understand. What I've done to keep you and this studio safe and sound isn't something any human being is supposed to imagine…but here I am, and here you are."

The woman felt a hand come to her jaw once more- but this time she had an awareness this was not only a touch of care but of _possession._

"I've…realized that it's best if you stay with me now. That's why you're here. It's…the best for you, Frankie. I promise."

The palm upon her proved pliable, allowing her mouth to gape like eyes weren't wide enough to take in everything he said. But finally- it served its purpose and gave her a voice. It may have been a whisper, but it arrived so very loud.

"That's a lie."

Joey gasped as a soft expression jerked out of his grasp, transforming as a snarl curled across such a delightful, loving girl's face. It was like watching an angel come down to earth just to tell you your sins.

"Henry came for you."

…But Joey did deserve to hear what he had shut out.

"I was never safe at all."

…The atrocities this man allowed to befall not only his studio but everyone forevermore.

"And if you expect me to think that the guy who keeps me fucking trapped here is the person who wants best for me then boy do I have some news for you."

 _ **They call for the demon down empty halls. They almost cross into the other.**_

"Stop. Stop, darling-"

"NO! You can't stop me! _NOT ANYMORE!"_

 _ **He punches the barrier.**_

Joey grimaced, briefly screwing his eyes shut with a furrowed brow until the impact ceased.

"I'm not special at all! People died! People like _me!_ _YOUR OWN SON FUCKING DIED YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"_

Haunting silence. The kind that cuts the core out of souls, the kind that forces time to stand still.

"…You're… _so_ much like him, you know," Joey murmured to that, half praying to interrupt and still her rage and half speaking only for himself, like he was dusting off a bookshelf of memories kept in his chest.

"…Maybe that's why you're alive."

A pause.

A step back.

" _You goddamn twisted bastard."_

She was so disgusted that Francine didn't notice the demon slipping away.

But _he_ did.

 _ **She notices, and now so does he.**_

"Darling, don't go too far-" Joey pleaded, shaking his head and reaching his hands out once more, a touch of desperation reaching his eyes as the cartoonist attempted to coax her back- closer, within his reach if need be.

His pulse began to shake his jaw. Why was he so-…?

A spot. A familiar spot finally distinguishable- but of course, the color pink is something hard to miss upon a world stained black, white, and gold.

Instinctively, much to her opposition's dismay, Francine stomped on the strap of the bag that came into her peripheral now that she had moved further from Joey and closer to the truth, keeping her possessions in place. If- if he- if he _really_ had so much control- could keep her by himself alone like she wasn't a person but a china doll to keep prim and proper and placed where he pleased- boy was he gonna get a fucking kick in the face.

 _ **He is fighting back.**_

Two things in the bag- two things that wouldn't do anything for her that was good. They both alarmed him, but for very different reasons.

Another pink object emerged into her clutches.

"What- what are you doing?!"

His distress was tangible, and it made Francine sneer in victory. She was right. She was right.

Maybe it couldn't help anything but her own sanity- maybe it was at the expense of others- but if this was all a falsehood from the beginning, well…

She was right to not be alone.

"Do you really think that you can keep me-?! That y- that…that you can really just…keep me in this fucking place?!" Her hands pressed the phone screen on, making quick work of entering her apps. The glow of the device seemed to shine like her confidence- both futile yet so very strong.

All she had left.

"Well maybe you can! Maybe you fucking can!" she cried, frown pushing so far back it pinched her eyes nearly closed. "But you can't keep me alone! You never could!"

So bitter, so pained. So-

Joey's stare grew more panicked as she realized what she was contemplating.

"Darling- darling please-"

"Darling please WHAT?! I didn't want my family to know I was gone! But if I'm really gone forever what's the fucking point?! I'm NOT going to be here with YOU! I'm gonna tell them, _even if they can't come!"_ Her breathing was heaved, and a luster came over her eyes-

But once more, she refused to cry.

"I'm not gonna be alone! You can't MAKE me be alone!"

"Frankie, it _is pointless-_ please!"

The more his agitation shook his tone, the surer hers became.

Defiantly she pressed the call button and begged her mom would pick up even after tricking her into believing her daughter never wanted to be found.

" _Please find me,"_ she worded to herself, praying to God that she could even hear her mother's voice again. Voicemail- even a _voicemail-_ please…!

God answered, a god hoping to spare any more pain, having lied and hid so much only for it to become worse before his eyes by his own hand.

"…She won't be there."

"Shut the HELL up!"

Francine turned her head away, biting her lip and stomping the ground as the call didn't…even go to voicemail.

It was like it was dead.

…

…

Francine swallowed something truly horrid down and checked her last messages.

 _Me (10:12 PM): I need to do some thinking, Mom. Having him gone made me realize some things. Im going to be gone for a while. Take care of him, take care of yourself mama_

 _ **Mom (10:13 PM):**_ _I dont understand_

…

Wh-what was…?!

A trembling finger scrolled up.

…

 _ **Mom (10:04 PM):**_ _What are you talking about?_

 _ **Mom (10:05 PM):**_ _Answer me_

 _ **Mom (10:08 PM):**_ _Frankie where are you_

 _ **Mom: (10:08 PM):**_ _stop being moody and come home. im sick of it. We miss you. cme see Gabby_

 _ **Mom: (10:09 PM):**_ _hes been asking to see you. Don't do this now when we need you. Dont do this to him._

…

Why did her messages…

...Look like that?

 _ **Mom**_ _ **(9:45 PM):**_ _We found him behind the grocery in the next town over_

 _ **Mom**_ _ **(9:49 PM):**_ _He's scraped up on the knees and we're taking him to the doctor but Gabby looks alright_

It was… _ **darker.**_

The text was never that dark, that rich with black-

A second attempt started before searching the texts continued to ring dead, Francine numb to the sound and blood filled her ears.

 _ **Mom**_ _ **(9:40 PM):**_ _Frankie we found him!_

"You're alone, Frankie."

Joey folded his hands guiltily over her heart, barely visible behind Francine's phone. Just like all else consumed by the ink, the dead was brought back to life…

… **And it was at Joey's mercy.**

He could manipulate video, he could manipulate text, but he couldn't fake a mother actually picking up a phone and answering her child.

Not when there was never service at all.

Tears finally broke trembling lashes.

"I'm so sorry. I only wanted you to not worry about them-"

Never had a louder scream rung out, a woman broken to pieces all over again repeating history.

Joey was unfazed as a flash of pink grazed the side of his head, a cell phone plopping into the ocean of ink behind him.

There was so much more to dread hitting him in the face.

 _ **She breaks a cutout.**_

And history repeated itself once more in a way entirely new. The ink behind Joey couldn't resist keeping up an illusion of peace- of things better than they really were. It was all he had, so it was all it did.

The liquid void pulled back, then forward. It skimmed past his shoes and all the way to her toes.

When it pulled back, the ink that took away had given it back, fake assurances from both herself and someone not her mother beaming up with the same lie as it had always been.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered once more, but the tears in his eyes meant little to her. His twitches, his grimaces- his reactions to the world changing meant nothing to she who saw the world change too.

" _IS HE EVEN ALIVE?! WAS GABBY EVER FUCKING ALIVE AT ALL?!"_

Hands came over his mouth, as if he was the one that had the right to be sick to his stomach.

A long, long silence as her demands quaked the walls and made the ocean flow back and forth, stronger and stronger.

 _ **So much. Too much. Stop it, stop it, stop it-**_

His arms suddenly flew around as the outcries of many done wrong filled his ears and eyes and demanded his heart on a stick.

"I NEVER KNEW! I HAVE NO IDEA! STOP _MOVING!_ STOP _FIGHTING!_ THERE'S NO USE, IT'LL ONLY GET _WORSE-"_

She wasn't moving at all, and so a woman already out of her mind with heartbreak after heartbreak.

But he only had to say one thing to bring her back to a fight:

" _I would rather have you trapped here than die!"_

Shaking fists and teary eyes clenched shut, Joey finally screaming back at the world that screamed at him.

Why was he so surprised that it would only return to him yet again, one's truth traded for another's?

" _WHY DO YOU GET TO CHOOSE THAT FOR ME?!"_

Francine's final question echoed- but it wasn't her voice. Something that could only be described as otherworldly began to burrow into the walls- somehow fill a never-ending cavern like the foghorn at a lighthouse calls for safety to its shores.

 _ **The demon appears again, right behind Joey.**_

…This lighthouse at the shores of eternity called for **he.**

And something finally broke on the edge of her consciousness.

She remembered the demon.

And all he had done.

 **And all he had done was for Joey.**

Francine didn't look at Joey again. She simply stared at that never-ending smile- that grin of false security as she reached down for the second thing she had kept- had hoped to never use again but had retained in secret just in case- that would only make things worse.

The ax in her hands swung ahead as she made a dash.

It again went past Joey and aimed for ink.

So much happened at once that her adrenaline hardly allowed for understanding, but it was so haunting, so telling, so important that she couldn't missed it if she tried.

As the demon held the weapon in one gloved hand, it appeared to put forth effort. Not effort to keep it in place- it was always going to be stronger than she- but it shook, it groaned, it trembled…

… _Much like Joey did by her side._

Of course, it would take a lot to calm yourself down if you saw an ax flying towards your face.

The beast mirrored the agitation of the man he shadowed, a twitchy grip finally- with control- grasped the ax and discarded it to the side and far, far away from her reach.

The demon regained stillness and lost bloodthirsty ways, the core of a man's soul responding to blows of steadying breath and closed eyes.

But Joey never truly did calm down.

 _Never had._

 _That's why this place was like this._

 _ **The heart of a man is so visibly unstill once one steps inside and allows their deepest desires to reign as king.**_

Joey cracked open eyes to a woman who truly understood now- understood that his heart and soul enveloped her, had watched over her long before they met, without her consent.

And that couldn't be taken back.

No matter how close he kept her from searching for more.

No matter how much he hid her away from those who wanted her back.

All so much. Too much. Too many strings left to tie before someone tripped over them, too many paths to block before destiny gushed past like a flooding river, too many minds to manipulate in order to keep them from leaving the places Joey deemed them safe to be.

And that's why the world began to fall apart like it never did before, even worse than it did for his beloved son.

Life's frail thread snapped in two as a man already with a crack waiting to be broken finally shattered inside out, until the ocean fell and barriers dropped and a man who wished never to be seen like this was seen by all.

The demon could only smile as it did, the trial of Joey Drew beginning as he and his lies became bare to all he had hurt and kept away for so long.


	78. The Illusion of Living

**78- The Illusion of Living**

" _And their eyes were opened, and they recognized him. And he vanished from their sight."_ – Luke 24:31

* * *

The world utterly tore apart for, against, and because of Joey Drew. The studio had been a hellscape- an ever twisting, turning labyrinth ensnaring everyone in their own personal slice of perdition and suffering- but never had it been like this, even beyond the turmoil of Henry's presence soaking into the walls and making them more hostile and deadly than ever seen before.

It had never been Henry himself though that caused that instance of terror. No. It was a reaction to a reaction. Now Joey was reacting once more, the universe carved by his soul becoming something fearsome as serenity failed him and left only woe.

The openness of Francine knowing what he really was left him vulnerable to all, and it only became more and more ghastly as seeing the worst happen made an already scared man completely and utterly mortified to still be standing.

The shore of wood and ink disappeared- but not because either material no longer ceased to be; instead, it remained to create new, treacherous shapes. The invisible threads of magic weaving between the floorboards lifting Joey and Francine above the lapping black had begun to split apart as the force of unsureness made the black ocean slip away.

And away.

And away.

With the loudest, most furious cries of crumbling reality surrounding them, the two spots of color in the studio witnessed the ink around them rumble, rise- threatening to swallow them entirely- and then crash down.

Down deeper than it had been before.

Until the broken edges of the wooden island were bare, jagged edges spiked to kill dripping an onyx liquid.

 _Down._

 _Down._

 _Down._

As Francine watched that drop fall over the edge, realizing that the ocean had not gone away at all, but had simply become an abyss cascading vertically down- no. Not only down. Around! Rising, falling, swirling, _stirring._

She recognized it. This was arising upon the dawn of another form of existing- the kind of existing that briefly enveloped but did not take her when she chased the ink demon and he left her falling through the floorboards. The same living, wet darkness that swelled and bled like a wound with its own mind- she realized- had never left her.

The puddles had always been there, waiting to take her too.

The glittering pit that cut and groaned all around them was distressed, though- something defined by the word bubbling and twisting like ropes melting into each other, far more mobile, far _louder_ than when they encased her last.

 _Unsettled._

How incredible it is that this wasn't the most unsettling detail of all.

It was not only a moat, not only a cavern descending into the depths of watery underworlds. No, as vertically it streamed and swelled forever, horizontally across the plane of reality, a horizon with no end began to have one. The impossible became possible, and nightmares became true.

As the tides pulled in and caved into the core of the earth, with it pulled patchwork realm of a lonely king. The groans of a world imploding all around compelled Francine to clasp over her ears, its shake buckle her knuckles to not fall over- as if it could stop a damn thing.

The young, cursed intruder had been shaken- traumatized- over and over and over again. If you had stopped to ask her just before she shattered Mr. Drew's reality, the woman would have informed you that nothing could scare her, not anymore, with an incredulous look slid across her face. But of course!

She had seen death and came right back, leaving both soul and body stuck in the limbo, forced to be unnatural among those whose existence was unnatural too. Slithering black, both their corporal form and the essence of their eternal being- she was surrounded by it. And she had to learn to exist among it, right at the thin line to be close enough to connect- to survive and feel like a human by finding the remnants of life scattered around her- without reaching into the ink and letting it pull her in with a greedy hand, wanting what she had but never able to have it…and thus destroying it forever in the process. A balance upon the unsteady tightrope of empathy maintained as searchers pulled at her ankles, angels pierced with their longing stares, and projectionists nearly ran her off the cliff into the very darkness that waited all around her now. If not for the prophet with his promises of hope for her and humanity inside himself, surely she'd be among those of the swollen, murmuring abyss.

To be horrified was not only normal but the easiest thing to be, and so she had come to accept these nightmares waiting for her with open arms left empty.

Of course it wasn't, but not the studio, nor its residents, nor the man and beast ascribed as its god had any idea that the worst imaginable had even more lying in wait to snatch them too.

And indeed, it took them _all._

Like it was Pangea's reformation, the studio was drawn as metallic shreds to the centering magnet of Joey Drew, the walls of the oceanic ballroom closing in. The first time Francine came here in his seclusion, she blinked and felt more suffocated. _This_ shift, however, was blatant. Entire walls splintered board by board, bending and splintering in two like they were nothing more than toothpicks between the fingers of a deity much bigger than anything they'd ever known. As the walls were reeled in with fish wire of stress and unknown wishes, the pipes groaned to hold on until they burst- like it was pulling apart the building bone by bone, vein by vein, bleeding rivers into the pit of the same blood, grabbing a hold of JDS's spirit by the wrist and tugging it so tight it flesh became crushed with nowhere to go but implosion in a wrathful grasp.

As Francine nearly stumbled to the floor with the rumble of a universe concentrating into one place, Joey felt it too, not only no matter how much he denied it but seemingly because of it. He gasped, yelped, and shrieked, and so fear building upon fear kept his own horrid, deformed creations coming and coming. With each break he could try to steady himself, but the terror personified quickly dug up the shallow graves of hurt feelings. Not even the most practiced, the most experienced of those out of control can hide it any longer from the fate of unsteady grounds and self-aware dismay.

The demon didn't even flinch as the man who didn't want to be found was found by all, the walls being broken eventually disintegrating like ashes blown from a palm into the wind.

The puddles have become a gap, the only thing keeping the people he trapped here from crossing into the island of solitude where only Francine and Joey were permitted to be caged.

Of course, the first to find them just screamed.

The projectionist's cry rang out as the wall he punched at again and again finally burst before him, but not with his own force. It left him as the first to gaze upon the very heart of a lifetime of grieving.

The first time in a very, very long time that Joey Drew saw someone as they, too, saw _him._

And with that break came more, the strike at his carefully managed separateness not only reopening him to be seen but beginning an irreversible crack that carved all around him until everything shattered splinter by splinter in wood, metal and ink; each beat of his pulse was the orchestra's director of a blaring symphony of madness, destruction, and the formation of something that he yet again did not want to see as the noises of new structures birthing from old rang so loud that Francine could feel it ripple through her skin.

Among the sounds of deep, massive death…a different one. A cry- a noise not unholy like the rest of them but still so unnerving because of how totally other it was. It stole Joey's breath as he put a hand to his face, and Francine pivoted to face something that she would never wish upon anyone else, especially after experiencing it herself.

Sammy grabbed Alice by the wrist before she could trip into the puddles, the angel never before feeling as vulnerable as she was now, upper body dangling above the thing she hated most as nothing but unsteady heels and the slimy grip of a prophet keeping her from becoming one with the fishbowl of lost souls.

Thank the lord that the preacher staggered her back and away from the cut edge of their serrated piece of the world; surely he would have let her go if the dumbness, numbness of the sight not down but straight ahead had caught his eye and left him at the mercy of all the gravity in the world falling upon his shoulders.

It forced him to his knees as he saw the center of the universe.

It smoothed his hands till limp, ones so ready to hold grab and never let go now unable to do anything at all as Francine met his eyes- the woman not dead nor ink nor ascended to heaven.

It dropped his jaw until it showed teeth as he who bestowed that which gave him sight stood tall behind her, the god of his psalms smiling still as his shadow fell upon the earth and absorbed it, lightly clenched claws seeming to pull all of existence into a single room.

And finally, it shook every millimeter of his body from the surface of inky soma until it swam its way to an inky heart, filling him with something unspeakable that forced the black he was sculpted from to seep out and out, over the brim of his pants, down the length of his arms to trembling fingertips, from his skull and to the floor drop by drop by drop…

…As he saw hair of red, a bowtie of blue, and eyes of yellow stare back.

And then this…this _human_ said his name, the human man gaping, a hand to his heart and one reaching out and then recoiling just as soon, fear and love at once from Joey for the man that knew who he was all along.

"S-" this unfeasible old man stuttered, whole expression shaken, "Sammy…"

If it was relief Joey looked for as he searched painted eyes, that is not what divinities would bestow within the prophet's reply.

A mask barely tied over his head now rested askew, threatening to fall off thanks to the turmoil of being thrown around like a toy soldier in a lifted dollhouse, but he didn't move to adjust it. Nothing could bring his body to move, nothing could bring his lips to speak as the prophet finally saw the truth he had forced himself to live for without ever seeing it for himself, and it being nothing at all that he expected it to be.

A hand rose and pointed, weakly, slowly- ink falling down upon his legs.

Joey waited- waited for something, _anything-_

"… _No."_

The musician stayed still in place as he could barely talk back to an impossible, wicked idea.

"He must- he must- my lord must…have-…"

Joey exhaled as Sammy was soon found to speak only to himself, not yet sure to be relieved or mortified.

"… _My lord must have his reasons…!"_ he begged, trying to puzzle together pieces that wouldn't fit without becoming something completely of heathens _. "My lord must have done this…for…for…!"_

The man ahead quickly found something to grab onto in that little lifeline, the end of a ball of yarn quickly unraveling. "Now Sammy, Sammy you are _right,"_ he swiftly assured with a kind, soft voice, "There's a reason for all of this- a reason why you are _here,_ a reason why-"

But any chance of him finishing that plea was dashed away, and the sight of the preacher melting away not just in body and mind but to the bottom of his heart made a woman so afraid to be alone again, to be without him again, forced unable to hold her friend as he within sight but out of reach when needed someone most.

She recognized the deception evaporating before him just as it did for she, blowing away the blinds of clouds underneath until all there was left to do is plummet down from the sky. He who stood strong to show her to be the same- he who kept her from falling apart was now falling apart himself.

Joey gave a small but such _panicked_ screech as a paternal hand beginning to be outstretched for Sammy found use for another child, grabbing his prisoner's arm just in time to keep her from mindlessly trying to run near the beach of an island with not a shore but a pit- a pit that reacted with such fierceness to the frights in Joey's head that the cartoonist was afraid it'd rupture under her feet.

Indeed, his mouth frowned in a way he had never known, hearing creaks even where they stood as his muscles strained more and more with each "Let go of me!" and "Sammy! _Sammy!"_ that opposed him until flailing arms and anchored legs gave way to complete desolation, deep and hearty sobs eventually the only sound left as she became too exhausted to fight anymore; Francine had lost her family and in a way, she was losing Sammy too, and that was too much. The woman did nothing but shut her eyes as her very best friend felt the first wave of dread, a warning of everything he had fought so hard to keep at bay coming with more power than ever before to drive his soul into despair. Would she ever be able to even touch him again? She didn't know, and so all she had was gone.

As Francine cried her friend's name once more across the distance- she barely not falling to her knees, too, if only for her prophet's sake- Joey was left with wide eyes and quivering hands as he saw the healing beliefs that took Sammy so long to build and preserve screech in its release, heard by all who heard Sammy try to assure and comfort with his prayer:

"INK DEMON!" Sammy shouted to his master, "INK DEMON, TELL US- TELL YOUR PROPHET! TELL YOUR BELIEVERS- _FRANCINE!_ WHAT IS BEING DONE HERE?! WHAT ARE YOU ASKING OF US?!"

Demands either unheard or ignored, the demon not even turning to look at him.

…But Joey was already looking his way-

" _NO!"_

His mask nearly slipped off with vigorous shakes of his head, splattering drops of his flesh onto his paper-toned pants and the crooked floor. Some even went so far as to descend to the puddles below, shiny dots becoming a part of the adrift masses again.

Indeed, a man of ink and one of light and metal weren't the only ones that came to show him what he had done. There were searchers, rising from their thin, wet pools as not only was the solid world became too unstill to remain in but the liquid realm seemed to quake too, moaning and grunting their confused, pained calls as they no longer had refuge in either state of being. They dragged themselves by hands and elbows to the edge- like crowds in an encircling arena looking over a battlefield for a missing girl and a gentleman confined with a ravenous beast- as the butcher gang and their clones tottered and splashed in the searchers' paths, twittering in their broken, animalistic voices questions of what this may mean…

…Maybe of if this before them was what it meant to be set free.

Staring. Staring. Staring. Staring. All eyes on Joey, all eyes seeing him for who he was- everything he never wanted. It quickened the studio owner's breath and made his fingers curl as anxiety crept up them and into his bones, twitching blinks from him that tried but could not match every gaze that rested upon him. As soon as he saw one searcher- one butcher- his heart would grow faint and fling itself to the next, and it happened over and over until he realized inch by inch that _these_ were how many lives he took forever.

These were how many faces that were no their own with him to blame.

But it mattered most to someone who he saw last, the one who built her own face.

Alice, the one who remembered, finally recomposed, numb to the sight of Sammy Lawrence's religion dying at her feet. She was one who even if she refused her name, still knew it. The one that could still feel in her fingertips everything he lost, and everything she would never have again.

The rips of flesh hardly holding the left side of her face together strained upon more to keep a jaw from falling to the floor. Broken lips trembled. Clenched fists shook.

" _Joey,"_ she whispered, and even across the vast nothingness, the man to whom that word belonged felt it slink down his spine like a raindrop down a windowpane.

But of course.

No one but Henry and Francine had said his name in an entire lifetime. The sting of that loneliness morphing into something even worse was just inevitable.

And as Joey slowly turned his gape to her, horrified at what was before him, the things she lost came back, wave after wave, pulse after pulse- visions of smiles, of songs, of promises.

Of turned backs, harsh looks, and arcane words muttered in secret.

Unlike Francine, she didn't even need to see any undeniable mirroring between he and the demon to confirm that after all these years, the one who dragged them to hell fell down right along with them.

And the sight of him being…being… _the same-!_

Francine, hands on her thighs, finally pried her focus a few mere degrees from one friend to the other, just in time to see her fall apart too.

"…Susie…!" A soft exclamation from the dandy in white stained with death gasped near Francine's side, almost as if even after all this time knowing who Alice became and what she was, the young voice actress never left her at all. "Susie, _darling,_ it's been so long-!"

" _JOEY!"_

…Well that just wouldn't do.

She knew- she knew she saw him a long, long time ago- blamed it as madness from first emerging from the puddles. Her face twisted with how naïve she'd always been.

"So! It's been you all along!" she called, "I suppose I already knew that you started this but…continuing it? Hiding?! God! GOD!" she screamed, throwing her hands to her hair, halo bouncing as she turned about every which way in disbelief. The other beings in the mismatched chamber peered past the holes in patchwork walls and across the living, breathing gap to watch her distress in curiosity. The angel had always been angry, but never… _out of control._

Oil-stained glasses felt their shine shift over them, short, awkward grunts of words beginning but not finishing playing with the back of Joey's throat as a girl he had watched over for so long, so endearingly with so many expectations didn't greet him like an old friend.

 _But of course she wouldn't. Not when she remembered it was him that made it necessary to change expectations in the first place._

"Susie, my dear darling angel-!" he gasped, mouth open with a small shake of the head in disbelief. But whatever he had to say to her condemnation, it was snapped back shut with lips closed tight with the sensation of sickness. No, nothing he could tell her could console, not anymore.

She had grown up so much since he last used words to coax her into childish complacency.

"NO!" a woman who made herself anew screeched, hands to her head and knees buckling together, "DON'T CALL ME THAT! _I'M NOT SUSIE,_ _AND I_ MADE MYSELF AN _AN_ GEL _, NOT YOU- NOT Y_ OU- N _OT! YOU!"_ And the last denial was so enormous that it made everyone in the studio question if it was she who said it or something in the air, all around and begging for them to believe what it said. _"I'_ M AL _ICE_ AN _GEL!"_

Such a force came as the woman stolen of her colors literally looked at the very thing that took away her humanity, the same man that she once struggled so hard to please. No wonder her voice split back and forth, like a ping pong ball tossed around; it was certainly how her emotions were played with.

Meanwhile, as Sammy didn't even react, too busy as he tried to surround himself with a gospel of dismay to avoid the little he had left crumble away-

"No, that doesn't make sense- a person- a human- Joey? _Joey-_ _Who-?_ How _could_ he-? _He can't!"_

-He didn't hear the cavern changing…

…Responding.

…Hollowing.

… _Understanding._

Different sounds than before from the swirling souls upset in their profane waterfalls.

Brow curling and sticky hair clinging to the sides of her face as it moved back and forth to investigate the ungodly, Francine gave a small moan of grave concern at this changing tone of a thousandfold meeting their maker. Alice, however, didn't pay attention to what made the other woman distraught but rather finally realized with her troubled voice there wasn't one human being before the angel but _two._ Thus, her voice became quieter, but the sirens that somehow blared with her eye instead still shot across the room for all to hear and be greatly, greatly alarmed. Please God, _no._ But what else was left to wonder?

"… _What are you going to do with her?"_

And with that, everyone- every searcher, every cartoon, even the projectionist and even the maestro clutching and clawing at his own skull for answers he couldn't yet find- focused on the man who twitched every which way at all the eyes upon him. They were waiting for an answer.

Francine was too, tears trailing her cheeks as she stood not even a meter away.

Each corner of the studio was pulled to one spot to witness the master of their sins, and yet **he merely stood,** demon lingering in his shadow. As if it was they that cornered him and not he all along, his shoulders rose and fell as a person hidden for eighty years by his own distress and cowardice was hidden no more.

After all this time, the girl still pure flesh was at his altar, and all waited with baited breath to know if this was a sacrifice for her as a goddess reigning above death or if she was simply lamb to the slaughter, yet more blood to be shed in front of the rest to remind them this was **his** world, and **his** hand that controls every thread that sews in and out, in and out until everyone is connected to the slightest flick of his fingertips…

…If she was his treasure now to a dragon hoarding gold or an anomaly to be put to her place by a righteous judge.

And none of this being what Joey wanted, all he could do was let a gloss wash over the honey in his eyes and let dust of the unspoken come from his mouth in place of a voice. He knew he had done wrong, but never been confronted with being so wrong that others who saw would inquire with baited breath whether or not he felt this woman he began to love like a daughter deserved to die simply for being alive.

But he had brought Sammy to his knees.

He had brought Alice to scream.

The projectionist to swing fists.

The puddles to quake.

And he had brought tears to that very girl's eyes.

So why wouldn't he be the villain, the one who allowed the reflection of his deepest desires become a god, a lord to roam among the murk and ensure no one was out of place, no one questioned the right of the ink demon over the souls that Joey regretted to have stolen away but kept all the same?

The dark king, the warped ruler, the antagonist of a story no one had lived to ever tell- all he could do was look to the demon, the creature still unmoving, and then to Francine, freezing in place so shortly after straightening herself up. His lips were parted, sure he could say something to acquit himself of these sins, but as such an excuse refused to exist in the first place, amber irises flicked back and forth while searching hers.

A rock fell in her stomach as she recognized this gape as one begging her to defend this man against those accusing him of wanting the woman dead just like them; he was asking the only person not yet engulfed by his selfish curse that even after doing it over and over, somehow it wouldn't happen again.

And what could she say to that?

As the passing of time made it known he was truly alone among crowds and crowds of people he cared for, his jaw gradually clenched and a swallow ran down his neck. And then with none to exonerate him, at the father's pathetic silence, Alice shouted once more. Decade upon decade, right at him as all the control she had wrestled for slipped out of her hands.

"COME NOW!" A wretched sort of grin stretched across her face as her arms stretched wide and left her open to any justification, any insanity that'd explain the immeasurable, irremediable horrors he'd let ravage their corpses and spirits until they were completely unrecognizable. "THERE MUST BE _SOMETHING!_ What did you plan!? What have you planned for all of us?!"

Her arms side to side with these words then gestured all around at the crowd brought to Joey, every last person under his thumb. At their inclusion, they began to stir, murmurs of people nearly animals still grasping somewhere in their minds that this had to do with them and what they had been driven to be for far too long. Norman- limbs outstretch too side to side but not in gesture but to fight- had his light flicker as the blurred last feet of its reaches barely touched Francine's skin across the little left of his floor, then the abyss, and then past Joey's nose.

The most terrifying thing in the world had brought Alice to feel nothing about it- nothing at all. All that was left for her was to question it- just as Sammy was now questioning it, just as Francine, just as anyone still with enough sense did.

 _Why Joey?_

 _Why?_

Francine witnessed his eyes skew shut and hands throw over his ears, as if he could shut it all out. But of course a curse designed to make him see and hear all wouldn't allow him to miss the heartbreak right in front of him.

"I didn't! I'm not-…" A breath forced its way between teeth, a sickly, nearly sobbing sound as it took more composure than most anyone could have to try to verbalize feelings unspeakable. "You must understand, my girl- I'm not- I'm not doing anything to try to hurt you! You can't comprehend all it's taken for me to keep you safe-!"

"SURELY!" the woman emboldened called again interrupted, "But surely there is a…a REASON!" Like a prosecutor in a courtroom, she paced back and forth as one eye so far away managed to send a chill down Joey's back, Susie Campbell murdered in cold blood and him with blood found on his hands. The defense of the demon meant nothing to her now.

 _Nothing meant anything anymore._

"You didn't hurt us?!" she scoffed, "You have the GALL to EXIST and tell us that _YOU DIDN'T HURT ANYONE?!_ That you KEPT US _SAFE?!"_ Her expression became so malevolent, so distorted with revulsion that her sneer was almost unrecognizable. "YOU KILLED US ALL!"

A gasp, flying like cold wind to his tonsils and one hand rising with the quickness of lightning to cover his lips from releasing either vomit or words even worse.

"Joey…" Francine choked, marveling too.

Because the man before her, short and dainty, frilled at the sleeves and fringed with hair near his cheeks…

Rosy in the face and soft in the eyes…

One hand scarred for love and another that had drawn dreams…

This was the killer of not just Susie but the all in the room except Francine, and they were all waiting to see if he would kill her too. That revelation was enough to either let the woman fall feeble or to do as she had always done. Yes, even as something beyond what was considered beyond the most a human being was intended to struggle through, Francine was reduced only to what she had always been:

Brave enough to look in the face what had took everything from everyone, even if maybe she was next. She had to know. She had to know why- _why do this?_ What would drive someone who seemed at one point to be so genuine, so kind, to _do this…?!_

"Joey…?"

And maybe it was more to himself. Maybe it was to his victims. Maybe it was even to Francine, but as she adjusted herself to look at him in the face- making herself in his line of sight, she saw blank eyes wide with reflections of all his transgressions and trembling lips heavy with awful veracities whisper:

" _Am I your murderer?"_

And so simply, Joey forced a girl still able to breathe to ponder if he was.

With clear pearls in the corners of her eyelids, it came upon Francine in the horrible quiet of shock that followed and made her step back that an answer to that was not to be found, instead feeling in her chest that was being pried inside out as he asked this, as if to him it wasn't his choice if this was the truth but _hers._

Or maybe as if Joey had stabbed her in the heart and placed her hand upon his, that gripped the handle of a knife and let the beautiful reds she brought with her from above bleed onto their hands.

She didn't have time to decide if this was even for her at all, indeed, as everyone answered Joey in brutal, suffering unison. A sharp intake of air filled his lungs with eyes somehow stretching wider, magic of things good and evil glittering like it did in the ink. His own atrocities came from the deformed tongues of his victims and forced him to take in each and every lie and all the misery that came with it down his throat.

" _WHAT IS IT?!"_ Alice shrieked, horns gleaming as she pulled her arms back and threw her voice as far into his head that she could. All it did was make him clench his hands a bit more, his empty gaze just a bit wider as he saw his entire world and how much it hated him. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO US?! _WHY?!"_

It was then, with the torn woman's anguish echoing through a room to match splintered, hurt feelings that Norman, the man formerly the angel's mentor, either in response to her distress or with the formation of his own, made his light wide and bright as shoulders threw back and that speaker in his chest crackled so loud, roared with such might, that like a lion he brought the call of every other creature one by one, reverberating until every soul finally, finally spoke their sorrow at the man who caused it to seed and consume them all.

Dominoes cascading, Francine's head twisted as she heard noise sweep across the room like a wave encircling them. Every searcher began to moan past the muting cover of ever-falling jaws. Pipers groaned, Strikers hissed, and Fishers gurgled, flinging their swinging heads and handless arms and chattering teeth inside skulls with complete and utter upset.

And then the _puddles._

Like fire rising from hell, the murmurs of dripping souls enveloping their island began to get louder…and louder… _and louder._

Sammy maybe failed to pull them out of their one-track hivemind when he was among them, sent there by the demon to prevent Henry's sacrifice, but Joey brought them back.

And they were cursing his name.

 _JOEY_

 _JOEY_

 _JOEY_

And beneath it all- Alice and searchers and Norman and toons-

Soon, something else was the hardest for him to hear.

" _No…"_

Joey gasped once more, pivoting where he stood, knowing this denial from Sammy was fundamentally different.

"No!"

As the ink man raised his chin from the floor till it was level with the one in a top hat, Joey felt it. It was already shaping his lips, already trembling clenched hands. Sammy was slipping.

"No- no no _no NO_ _NO NO-!"_

And then Joey accidentally sealed the fate of Sammy's belief. Hearing the young man pain, to hear him surely, surely in pain-

Mr. Drew in his great practice of containing terrible things still couldn't keep the core of his soul from reacting to such visceral anguish and grief for a lad he had wanted to blind from the horrors of this life.

To see your most loyal, most faithful disciple doubt would make any god weak in the vision of their flock, and as seer stared at him Joey couldn't hold back the same secret he failed to keep from Francine.

His skin crawled as he saw the personification of his soul shift in his peripheral against his will, oil smearing the corner of his sight like looming sin.

That was when illusion disappeared forever.

Sammy saw the ink demon clench his fists and straighten his back the same time as Joey did, something so simple that it fragmented eighty years until prayer, hope, and hymn swirled around Sammy like an aura, a man being broken so far that he went to his most basic state of faith and murmured all that had carried him day after day, moment after moment to make torture worth its while.

The demon's changing stance may have been done in reaction to calm Joey down, but it was a flinch of foolishness, a gamble that stirred something so deep inside Mr. Lawrence that once more, he would never be the same.

A lifetime of devotion increasing in volume until it went from a mumble, to a whisper, to words, to a shout so loud as to hope to drown out everything else telling him.

"Sammy," his former employer quaked to see him, "Sammy, please-!" Such a weak appeal, high in pitch and rough with trepidation for things irreversible. "Please, son, I can explain-!" That desperate reach of Drew's dared to come out again, even if it couldn't touch; a hope against hope that if Sammy was remembering him- if Sammy was realizing, too who the demon really was- that he would also find the old man with a warm smile that only wanted the best for him.

To hear the sobs of a man that trusted his god- unwittingly trusted _him._ That prayed, _"my lord, my god, my master, ink demon, INK DEMON, INK DEMON-!"_ That hymn that sung to keep him safe. Keep him stable. Keep him alive. It was prayed again now in the most terrible way, a man already broken breaking inside out all over again.

And that meditation was eaten up by the shouting of this world's god's true name.

Not thanking him for trying so hard for their sake.

Not commending him for doing all he could.

Not blessing him for doing everything a good father should.

It was damnation from the damned, calls from the netherworld insisting that he deserved even worse for what he did.

That was what released the floods of a man that had jammed fingers into a leaking dam, lest the rivers of fate lead where they never should.

But then, by his side- soft murmurs of distress- then it was _her._

The woman that gave him her hope.

Gave him her light.

Her smile-

Happiness-!

 _Faith-!_

Seeing she who had raised him to great heights of belief that maybe things could get better, maybe they could be set free- why, for her to look upon Mr. Drew now and leave him wondering if he had stolen every last innocence away that he came to see as their salvation?

His saving grace now returned his hurt- his weighted shoulders, heavy breath, and palms clasped over his heart-…only with her own as she waited for some reasoning he couldn't even comprehend himself.

And how awful it was to realize that her pain was so great thanks to him.

And as Francine uttered his name once more to end the silence of their locked eyes, guessing that maybe- just maybe- there was something he could say to all this, that was the last straw, and she saw the demon react before he did, a horrid screech from his closed teeth in agony. A tormentor desperate to convey his own torture snapped, and his outrage rose to the ceiling and submerged his universe no longer with tender love but his most appalling possessiveness.

It was all that was left to him, left to his devices to contain what was becoming more out of his grasp by the second.

"YOU ARE ALL _CHILDREN!_ I KNOW BETTER THAN YOU ALL!YOU _CAN'T_ UNDERSTAND!YOU CAN'T _COMPREHEND_ EVERYTHING THAT I'VE DONE FOR YOU! _I AM AT FAULT, BUT I AM FAULTLESS!_ THIS MAY HAVE BEEN BECAUSE OF ME, BUT I HAVE DONE EVERYTHING- _EVERYTHING_ I CAN TO HELP YOU! THERE WAS NOTHING ELSE THAT COULD HAVE BEEN DONE- _DON'T YOU SEE? DON'T YOU SEE?!"_

One last scream against the world that screamed at him, as they refused to listen, as they refused to comply. His brow furrowed and his frown cut across a face once known for smiles, and a voice once best at laughter now thundered with the demands of someone unwavering in a war against himself.

 _ **"** **ENOUGH!"**_

And the expressionless god finally moved once more, raising his hands far up in command of his Joey's words come true- the man's voice a pen that drew heaven's wrath and let it soak through the studio itself. **His** **aura flooded the walls, cracking them open even more,** and with a swipe of Joey's arms, everything was pushed back as **black** consumed him and the world was violently discarded not towards its monarch this time but away, deep and far into the chaos of his suffering mind where he could never be found and reminded of guilt again.

Francine was the last to see him, a glimpse of golden eyes that gleamed with rage soon becoming filled with sharp, sharp regret as he reached out his arm one final time to the woman far too long after his heart was closed off for good, a hand swiping just short of the nothingness that separated them.

As she flew back and saw his figure become covered by the splattering shade of the ink demon, the wanderer he held so dear couldn't say if it was he that was gone or she.


	79. Dearly Coveted

**79- Dearly Coveted**

" _But this is a people plundered and despoiled; All of them are trapped in caves, Or are hidden away in prisons; They have become a prey with none to deliver them, And a spoil, with none to say, 'Give them back!'"_ \- Isaiah 42:22

* * *

What does it mean to care for what you love?

Well, something in Joey decided that it was to lock it away, deep where no one can hurt it again. Hopefully, not even him.

 _Especially_ not him. Men aren't supposed to be gods.

 _And only God knew what was next._

* * *

Francine felt her jaw clench shut with not a force her own but by that of impact. Unnatural wind ripped through her hair until it stung the sides of her face, the dried ink left unwashed clumping strands together and creating tiny whips that left its bitter taste- the same horridly familiar taste as when Bendy revived her- upon the corners of her lips.

And then in flashes of darkness:

 _Whap._

 _Dink!_

 _THUD_.

The sounds of someone crashing back first into something that was unsuitable to soften such blows. She could have debated, however, that maybe nothing- not a mattress, not pillows, not even a bed of the most delicate flowers- could have made such ungodly power ease its clouts. After all, for a grown woman- a woman of generous weight, no less- to be carried away from one existence to another like a paper crossing the road with an afternoon's breeze? Perhaps only magic could explain.

And as her skull rattled, she remembered once more that unlike those of the studio with such magic to their name, she had none.

It was indistinguishable how long she stayed down, up, or sideways as all sense of gravity left along with any trust in Joey Drew. Why would she want to open her eyes? Her family was gone. The world she tried to know was something she nor anyone subjected to it had never really known- maybe could never know at all. And the father that adored a daughter was now burned in her mind in the worst way, morphing from someone who acted out of selfless love into someone that acted out of possessiveness. His image was somehow still the same while it warped beyond recognition- much like how he never changed at all to turn out so horrid.

Eyes with the soft light of kindness began to gleam with the gold of a miser. A smile stretched sweet like taffy then as sinister as the one upon below the demon's horns, slathered and dripping with blood and ink.

And those hands.

Those _fucking_ hands.

She let them touch her…put his fingers under her chin like a _dog._ Covered her eyes so she couldn't _see._ Held her hands not to comfort but to never let her she had trusted them, because they were gentle…warm… _human-!_

Maybe they weren't human hands at all to bind such a spell because look and see where they had led her now. More alone than ever in her whole damn life.

…Or so she thought, up until something gripped her wrist.

And just as the day they met, Francine screamed with the most primal fear and twisted up to see black grip onto her skin. A man with a scratched, wooden face and an unmoving smile met her gaze, and this too meant something different after this sick, macabre excuse of a fairy tale.

As Sammy and Francine looked at each other yet again as she scurried to sit up and lean her palms against loose paper atop wood floors, maybe it didn't mean anything to have learned a moral in the end of this. Friendship, kindness, empathy…she had given it. She had _learned it,_ and she had _earned it._ And so did he- the broken man gasping as her brief shouts at him faded away, again hurt somewhere in his soul that she had reacted to him as a horror rather than someone intending- _truly_ intending- to help.

The two friends- one new to this world and one very, very old- felt an eternity of fables snap in the air and melt away. Thanks to Joey, every single step in journeys short and long that crossed paths now meant nothing.

Because nothing could be what this was, and nothing was what they could do as the emptiness, hopeless, and utter deprivation of meaning swirled with the remnants of panic and revelations.

All that was left wherever the two found themselves- amid darkness thick over secrets but empty with their forced reveal- was each other. And so, with neither knowing what this life was intended to be at all let alone in the future, all they could do in the now was take in each other as the sole presence, the last essence of anything left.

One candle sat by them, lit.

A soft glow made Sammy's black skin shine yellow, betrayed the little shakes in his shoulders, stunted breaths, and the desperate grip of his knuckles as the fire showed Francine yet again how human he was- human he'd never be again thanks to someone that at one time they both had trusted.

Having met in the middle, the two upon their knees then held each other, praying to whatever cruelty controlled them that it wouldn't take the other too. It wasn't the puddles- not death, nor bodilessness, nor a succumbing to the ink- but it might as well have been, because just as Sammy promised himself over and over, it was his duty to stay no matter what his lord demanded of him.

And now, it was clear, also in spite of him.

Touches that meant everything to people who lost it all yet again, unsure even if another hug was worth it as her gasps filled the black space with hurt, as Sammy silently felt faith slip out of his heart and leaving him empty of everything except what he could keep in his arms.

The candle was taken, grip only gentle with weariness, and the flame was carried in gloved hands to light the dry wick of a second.

The grim fuzz of light crawled across the shape of Alice's knees as she gripped them to her chest, putting the candle to the floor and fixating her single eye on it; maybe it was only set aflame as a distraction, not for sight. Her stare- wide, vacant, wild. To describe her mind and emotions would be impossible just as it was for the two embracing in front of her, as it was a betrayal of something even beyond life and death itself that an omniscient narrator couldn't even begin to understand.

But it only took one look at her face to feel it, instead.

"Joey," she whispered, all she could recognize even after everything she had done to put Francine first. "Joey," she hissed again, voice shaking almost as if she loved him like a father yet again. It made Francine raise her head, and it made a man that didn't even remember Joey curl his fingers tighter, afraid he would take her away again.

And as Alice continued her muttering- "perfection," "how could you," "how could _I,"_ "I'm Alice, I'm Alice, I'm Alice"- the hum of magic, curses, or both drummed all around without the sight of any walls. Francine peered over Sammy's melting shoulder, biting her lips because god she'd be sick if she let that bastard take another sob out of her, and she let the space enter her soul, eyes shifting here and there around the few shapes in her peripheral thanks to friends in suffering.

Black.

Black.

 **Black-**

And as she searched for something to be there, something came.

A third candle lit, Sammy holding tighter with one arm briefly as he reached for the first stack of wax and tilted it into a third, so supernatural in a place where the candles often lit themselves.

Even with complete nothingness being there before, the change from nothing to something was hard to notice through the blur of tears, budding at the corners of her eyes and threatening to burst. As she moved her arm to wipe it away, the man restraining her first gave forceful resistance…and then seemed to slink into limpness. She gave it mind briefly, hearing his wet palms slap the floor and merely make shadow glossy with similarly colored ink, but the apparition ahead was hard to ignore.

This flame sat peacefully, almost as a memoriam on a desk-

Her stomach twisted into a knot.

-The same desk where Mr. Drew sat her down and just like a fae, asked her for her name and everything that came with it. The radiance itself almost seemed to create within the bounds of its light, because where there was the infinite now sat the familiar.

She only looked away so long, but it was enough to spot a dull, cream-colored smudge a ways away, one last candle. The christening fire was taking in her hands, wax cooling just enough to pool near her hands but dry there rather than burn.

She stood up, shuffling papers under her backstepping shoes in shifting weight.

The fourth candle was lit, the first gently set next to it.

The woman rose her head and looked back from where she walked from, noticing again not only the desk but what was behind it as she came to a thin table and tilted. What was there left her no idea what to think.

No idea how to feel about the fact that the shelves of her room and all the intimacies she had left of home had either followed her here or were delicately set down.

Didn't have time to, it turned out, as a shout rang out and a crash quickly followed.

Now that boundaries of the room were completed, an empty picture that frame next to a closed, ornate door fell victim to the smile that used to be within it. The glass that held nothing but dust now cracked as Sammy's mask was discarded, a pathetic, blindly delighted expression as scarred and faded as the man it was made to manipulate. So many more of it stared back. It weighed upon his shoulders until the man that had only just stood up and abandoned it once and for all could feel the guise of his master coming back. The drawings Joey showed Francine of how so many children thanked him for his care were now witnesses to the worst sin of all, and Sammy could only fall back to his knees and cover the remnants of his face. Even a blind man knows when to be afraid of what he's seen.

The maskless prophet curled into a self now vacant of whatever he used to have, a form he gave to his god with a purpose no more, and there was nothing Francine could say to that. To the person who was so strong for her, who held ground with faith to anchor them in the ocean's storm. Now that was gone with nothing left to believe in its place.

And then it was the room. How all that was important including her own flesh and blood was discarded not even into the trash but something beyond- something where things that knew love could never be loved this far away from home. How it tried to carve the heart out of her, display it on the shelf like another item that belonged to Joey Drew. How yet again, it would never be the same, but this time…it had managed to get past her wall of determination, empathy, and self-assurance. Joey Drew was a storyteller, and those words of his wove her downfall. The claws of his horror story's finale dug in deep and slashed away and away the sense of who she was, the sense of how this was supposed to be.

It was supposed to be about learning you don't have to be alone.

About accepting yourself even if you aren't what you want to be.

About becoming friends.

And most of all, it was supposed to be about convincing a god to let his people go.

But their god told her loud and clear he'd never do that, in his demented mind that for whatever reason found this hell acceptable, Joey would not tolerate being alone even if it meant he'd end up being the loneliest of all.

She turned her head when he couldn't stand the sight of him anymore, Sammy cursing the entity he once found beloved, a savior to release him now the devil dragging him down by the ankles; and he always had been…he always had been…

The poster of that little boy looked over her like an angel- his perfect dark curls, his brown skin and sparkling eyes. _"I'll wait for you,"_ she used to think, _"I'll wait for you to come home if it means you're still just fine."_

And now if he was okay- if maybe the redheaded bastard's lie ended up being true anyway- that's what Gabby would think of _her._ Joey allowed her to believe- to have a bubble of another reality where she was a hero that would make her way home when really, when she should have been wondering when the dream would stop and she would finally die.

And so, in the audience of two people justified in their own isolated suffering, and of all the things both hers and not hers meant to be coveted forever, she just took these thoughts and broke down and cried.

That was enough, though. It took a while- it took many breaths from inky, choking lips underneath eyes that never wanted to see anything ever again, but eventually each guttural cry subsided more and more with each breath; the clawing of his own face tugged dents into his cheeks that crawled down from under shallow, empty sockets down to a jaw that almost seemed to shed black tears to his clothes and the floor. After uncovering where eyes should have been, Sammy in his blindness began to see in the cloud of his agony the colors of something left to his accursed name.

The man stumbled until he could hear sounds of fresh wounds right in front of him, nearly stepping on her toes as shaking shoulders rose with hesitation and arms bent to whatever position was supposed to make this one thing alright again. Oily lips parted, a bead of his liquid body stuck between them to partially cover back up an open mouth, but it soon snapped in two as he broke silence in order to comfort her.

…In order to console the last piece of himself to clutch onto belief. It was both a selfless and a very selfish need- to hand onto this as rage and agony tried to pull his mind back down to hell, the very place he spent every minute praying to keep at bay.

Maybe his faith in his master was gone, but the only way he could exist was to have faith in something. And so the bitterness remained but did so in his unsure, frantic kindness- fleeing headfirst into a snowstorm knowing behind there were wolves of his own regret prowling and closing in.

"Francine," he nearly gargled her name, tongue itself seeming to melt into his throat too as Sammy kept himself from falling apart, "Francine."

He couldn't see her hands in front of her own face now, but for her not to stop her own lament in order to hear another's was striking enough to slap him across the cheek. It was only thanks to weariness that he held on, that the prophet hurt in a way that made him want to help rather than blame himself for how she was.

"Francine, please-!" His elbows bent without his approval Where were these godforsaken hands supposed to go? "I-" Those thin, black masses he called fingers finally stopped hovering at an invisible, pristine aura around her shoulders and sunk stains into a light blue shirt. His first hug was instinctive, one meant to snatch her away if anything dared to come for her again; to do so again not in protection but in comfort was different entirely to him. "I need you-" Needed her to what? He didn't know. Perhaps he simply needed her; that wouldn't have been untrue. Memory of the last time he chose to slip of his mask came forward, Sammy awkwardly trying to mimic the kind of touches she gave to assure him then.

"Please," he begged without knowing what for, hands coming off so one may pause before putting his palm over one set of knuckles covering her wet eyes and so another could reach around her back and feel gags of sadness press her spine into his fingertips with every lurch that came with sobs.

She wasn't stopping. She had to, though. She had to or else he'd rot further into this abyss the lord left them in.

The man learning once again to love a friend looked back once more to the examples given to him, and he saw that with every sorrow he had succeeded at pushing back just a bit more, she had returned it with a smile.

If Alice saw the series of expressions that came across him at this perplexity, she certainly didn't feel the need to comment; he was left alone with his racing thoughts and the person whose enjoyment in their horrid life helped him break an unspoken promise to Bendy to treat it as a life not worth happiness.

At first, the obvious; her grasp was pried off her face and onyx thumbs found the corners of the woman's lips. He didn't try to force them to rise up, though; a smile is so much more than the direction your mouth is turned. A look of desperate relief in hopes his touch was enough soon became panic, his brow sharply rising as he only heard her cry even louder.

Something else- something else-

He remembered them at the piano, her soft appreciation and budding pride as he laid a melody across its keys.

A nod to himself- almost as if giving himself permission to go ahead- before he swallowed back cries of his own to somewhere deep in his chest for another time, and he bent himself forward in such a way that the stray hairs atop her head became stuck to his forehead; still holding her face, Sammy felt his throat move and lips fumble as he made himself close without allowing her to hear or feel how much stress clogged up inside every inch of his body.

But even as those empty sockets sunk low like closing eyes and quivering breath tried to sing, he did not feel her truly smile again. She quieted- and that was good, he surmised- but it was not in his mind yet success. Not until every little bounce from crying ceased and the one good thing still with him returned would he be at peace.

All be damned, he couldn't let this slip away, one last floorboard beneath his feet as he watched every other break to pieces.

"My friend-" he pleaded, voice smoothly but abruptly shifting from lyrics of willow trees, "Francine, look…!"

What came with smiles? Sammy furrowed his brow as he glanced backward yet again, and he found her laughter, not only lighting up her face but the entire room with it.

The candles flickered with a soft fade, turning the gloss of his body yellow with their light and made clear movements as he lifted his skull and stared sternly at nothing behind her. Things from before became sprawled out ahead:

Lying on the floor, telling him the ceiling was pretty.

Hands on her hips, saying with such casualness that she'd lose weight from starving.

When she saw what he didn't- what his expression did unmasked as he felt his features contort into a squint.

She laughed every time. What was in common?

…

…

 _Silly._ She was being _silly!_

And that meant that he'd have to be silly too, at such a horrid time as this. But what else did he have? She could find joy before amid what they had believed to be the worst of things; he owed it to her now to find the same glimmer of diamonds in the darkest coal.

"Look!" he repeated again, at first removing his hands only so that she _could,_ in fact, look, but soon finding he'd have to busy them to succeed. "I'm- I'm going to-"

And then, yet another time that blessed sound came from her mouth rang in his ears once more. It was slight, but the little bubble of a giggle popping into Francine's voice was enough for it to be engraved into time.

The woman, tears still running down her face but with hands remaining pushed aside to uncover eyes, finally pried a sliver of them open in compliance…

…Just before shooting wide open at what would befall them next.

"These glasses!" he exclaimed, shifting a long forgotten but ever-present object out of the fold of his pocket. "That's what you called them…didn't you? To help see!" The cheer inserted was so forced that it hurt. "How ridiculous if I were to put them on, as if they could-"

But they _did._

A tone still subdued shattered into a shout, one that echoed far, far beyond the fake walls entrapping them. The pair of glasses gave a small scream of pain of their own, the material of its name cracking just a bit more as they were thrown in front of Francine's jumping feet.

Sammy stood there- limbs outstretched and dripping, and lungs heaving like he had run a thousand miles- as his sight left him once more.

No, it wasn't literal sight he had again. That would never come back. It was the kind of vision no one wants to live without; the kind he hesitantly prayed to have again, that Francine chased a god to find, and one that he himself wandered into sin for even the smallest glimpse through these lenses.

 _He could remember._


	80. Named

**80- Named**

" _We used to take sweet counsel together; within God's house we walked in the throng."_ – Psalm 55:14

* * *

"Sammy?"

Fogged, distant. It sounded like words muffled through water- no. No. It was ink. And the ink pulled and pulled it away until he sunk to the bottom. He could feel his own heartbeat, first strong and wild then less and less and less.

"Sammy!"

Softer.

" _Sammy!"_

Softer even. Nearly gone.

"… _Sammy…!"_

Repeated in his mind until the voice so sweet to his ears belonged to no one.

But that was not the end but the middle, as it warped into something…familiar. It repeated just like that, again and again until something unrecognizable finished its transformation clear as day.

He didn't feel Francine shaking his shoulders, desperate and wide-eyed, but she stopped all the same as he finally moved his head, stared at her without seeing, and then dipped empty eyes down.

A splatter of in fell from his fingers as they found the thing he had thrown down so unceremoniously, so unkindly for what it was.

So, so much.

The bead trailed down the arch of his knuckles, severed where his fingernail should have been, and trailed down the temples of this old, forgotten pair of glasses, slowly dancing around the edge of lenses. It was cupped in the ridge- briefly- before sliding down and then down to the floor. The cracks broken into them swooped over all behind them not like they were simply in front of things but as if it changed the surroundings to be seen through the glass, and delicate lines were drawn over the speckles on Francine's jaw as he raised the object up and past her dumbfounded face.

It was almost sacred, the silence. Hollow, the feeling in the air. Soft, this suffocation, as he held his own glasses in front of gaping, empty sockets until he saw through his own filter again for this first time in a century.

As Francine held her hands awkwardly up and to the sides of her shoulders after removing them from her friend, she didn't see a halo some ways away lift up to see, too.

The change was almost audible, like a string of notes along a piano- light, delicate, _new!_ Incidental music in Sammy's gasps as his expression widened and he made a small, sharp turn of the head towards where he could feel his fingers twingling.

They were musician's hands, ones that he not only knew but _remembered_ used to be complete.

It was almost like Francine saw him inspecting his own body, almost as if she simply couldn't see what he did- that he was transformed. His body was still ink, but something in his soul felt a magic crawl over his body, and his mind he could see skin smooth with calloused fingertips from holding a baton for too long, a shirt barely stained with a inkwell gone rogue.

She watched his hands slap the side of his head, skewing the glasses beneath them as he clawed with not only a desperate but a needing touch, understanding his real face was no longer there but all the same feeling such abrupt, world-tipping reality that he now could recall he ever had it at all.

Small dents formed in his skull where his hands lay so tight, and teeth clenched behind lips that used to be human.

"Sammy?"

And the voice was the same as it was the first time, not his dear friend Susie but Francine.

"I…" he began, beyond belief he could even speak at all, he trembled so much, "I… _remember."_

Francine felt a drop of ink hit her cheek as he threw his head up, clutching it even harder and screaming a thousand years of someone who thought he was gone forever.

" _I CAN REMEMBER!"_

Francine with eyes bloodshot from tears felt them sting not with more coming but with her only available reaction for that- a confused squint.

"…What?" Her head tilted with a small, disbelieving shake. "What the fuck does that mean, Sammy…? The hell-"

She continued to peer, leaning in. Sammy either in his overwhelm or in eager patience waited with wide holes in his face as he sensed her moving close, voice nearer as she looked over the sparkling cracks in front of them.

Her brow curled as she stared, and indeed it wasn't only light upon them. As Sammy's mouth stretched side to side in amazement, something like a faded, golden shock of lightning glimmered across the sharp angles before where his eyes would be. Indeed, eyesight was gone, but there was another sense given to him. Before she could say another word, he clasped her by the shoulders with a mania, an excitement Francine had not only seen from her but from anyone in her entire life.

"I KNOW WHO I WAS!" Sammy Lawrence shouted, face twisted between something utterly joyous and awful. "I was…" And here he slowed, breath taken away. A lifetime taken, a lifetime given new, and the first back again on top of the other. All right now, all it ever was, all it would be forever. And despite not being able to read the woman's expression, he gave her his own, and if she hadn't known any better about how his body worked she would think those dents in his head could grow tears.

" _Sammy…!"_ he whispered. So often had his own name been said, and yet it was never his. Not until now, and now it always had been. He winced, clutching her shoulders tight until she felt him leak from her shirt to her skin, and the cold of revelations felt like a baptism even to her. As he broke down and cried, the few facial features he had scrunching into themselves, those spectacles glimmered.

"So…you're…" she stammered, _"You…?"_ Couldn't even find words.

Bizarrely, maybe a magic out of another's control.

It was too much to think about as Sammy Lawrence breathed once again after being buried and left for dead by his own body and soul, too much for the woman beneath his hands, and too much for the other who had chosen to stay silent. No, this man was enough.

"I do!" he affirmed the question unfinished. His voice shook, separated into pieces as truth trembled him to his core and pulled his black lips at their corners. "I remember- a studio! It was this one! I worked there! Music! Cartoons! Jack and Wally- goddammit, _Franks!-"_

Francine had her back to her, and Sammy couldn't see even if he had his mask through his own speeding return to mind the angel becoming more and more attentive to what was going on, her image fuzzed in the background but not forgotten as she began to gape too.

"-Norman!" And here…quick words soon yet again became slow. And somehow, more meaningful. "Norman…" he muttered, the way his bottom lip tucked in at the last vowel as if he could taste the word. The hum of eternity played in the walls, the pipes drumming fast, low, and slow like names were beginning to crawl up his spine. As they did with Francine when she charged to see her seraph long, long ago, the beings of the studio came up from behind and grabbed him by his shoulders until he nearly fell back with their weight.

" _Joey…!"_ This one was worse. A long history. Not just with this man's soul making the walls but the walls he built and tore down before Sammy's eyes; all the beauty he made and all the confidence he bestowed, all turning out to be a loan instead of a gift that he snatched back into his worn, selfish hands. "He believed in me…!" Sammy let her go, shoulders slinking and hands falling to flex their fingers, twitching with anxiety. "He told me…I could do it. _We_ could do it. That everything would be just fine as long as we believed and pressed on."

And then a veracity came so sharp from his lungs that it could snap a flower stem in two.

"But he couldn't do it without Henry. 'Without Henry, there can't be-'"

But before Francine could speak- could interject and try to weave together these names to the story that was now her own, Sammy once again balled his fists and through him to his head because something had become inevitable. He suddenly, abruptly, horrifically shouted, and it was so terrifying that the woman who had learned to trust this creature made from death was safe to be close to abandoned it with a whimper, flinching back as she and Alice saw the most important name of all strike into him like swords inside his belly.

Indeed, this is what it looked like to understand the nature of one's god.

"BENDY! BENDY! _BENDY!"_

Finally, the angel stood from her sorrow, causing Francine to gasp once more as she came from behind to grip the mortal's shoulder. Both stood together, but both too were fixated. Certainly, it was different for Sammy knowing as he did then than it was for Alice. Her wounds were old. His were as fresh as could be, and its release wasn't meant for human experience. Such betrayal was not intended for those that were supposed to have mortal lifetimes, not for theatrics over two lifelong acts. And so it was more than twice as hard than it ever should have been.

Finally, he began to calm- bodily anyway. The panic in his voice, it remained. It may never go away now.

"He was…just a cartoon…just a cartoon…until…-"

He was folded into himself, hands moved to hold their sides. His own soma continued to fall on him, and his ink soaked into the paper that covered the floor.

"… _I died,"_ whispered Mr. Lawrence, recalling what he should never.

"Sammy…" Not Francine who answered but the one pulling herself closer and closer to the surface of what she had pushed away, what she had envied that Sammy had repressed. In all her fears, Francine looked up and tried to see what was in that voice, but somehow the bottom of black eyes were pinched and the corners of her mouth were pulled in a way that conveyed so much that couldn't be given an emotion the mortal knew in her own heart.

But she could feel the way Alice's grip relaxed, no longer protective but rather…readying herself, either ready to embrace what her former friend put at her feet or preparing to kick it away like she always had for this self-preservation in hell. She had told him what he had done to her, of course, and whether or not he knew it first hand would not change this pain.

He once again filled his lungs like they had never known air, no longer able to hide with his mask gone and memories pinning him where he stood.

"I…was Sammy Lawrence." No longer a fact by logic but a confession. A belief. A faith. "I was…not this." A mantra; his ancient promise that this was not how he was meant to be reborn. His fingers twitched, as if his body was betraying itself in allowing it to be spoken. "I'm not supposed to be this."

And then those sockets drooped too, almost like they were eyes closed, and a hand came over a heart that was not his first, feeling its wretched beat.

" _I'm not supposed to be here."_

And Alice's touch by this point was so loose and Francine broke free with ease, with no hesitation doing the only thing she knew to do. Nothing could save Sammy from this, but at least the woman could save herself from having to look at him like this a second longer if she buried her face in his chest and pressed her hands onto his back so tight that she couldn't be asked to turn her head up to another that made her so very, very afraid.

The angel simply watched them like this, witnessed the way the prophet born again stood curved with his chin towards the ceiling, like was frozen while jumping out of the ocean where he had drowned, just as he broke through the surface. The woman hugged the statue until Alice almost saw her become like one herself, quiet, noiseless sobs that shook her round, soft body against his narrow, slick one; they grew less and less and less almost like she was trying not to breathe, lest such trembling in her chest would quake him a millimeter more.

And then, the candlelight caught something new. As it did when he first moved before her, it enveloped him now as he came back to life. A second weight may have given herself to be held upright at his front, but it was a counterweight to the one leaning upon him from behind. That from the past and she from the future maybe suffocated him, but they balanced him too, and so maybe Alice shouldn't have taken so much notice as limp arms gradually rose, a palm lovingly staining Francine's hair with its gentle press as another came between her shoulder blades.

"…I'm so sorry, Francine," he whispered. There was a pause, one long enough for his friend to return with a _"Why? Why would you be?"_ but it was left upon her tongue to rot as he smothered her against him, as he wisely, hollowly finally understood. "This isn't where you were supposed to be either."

Francine's eyes were slits, trembling inside her skull with a quiet acceptance, a forgiving horror as someone besides Mr. Drew told her what she had always wanted- that it was okay for her to hurt…even when it seemed like everyone else had more reason to. These two held each other, and both in how the studio warped and harmed them were valid in their suffering, hatred, and reconciliation of it all. Both had lost, and both may never find again.

Sammy was beginning to understand how someone else had lost too.

"Susie," the composer called upon his songbird. It sounded exactly the way it feels when you open a window, and something that blew out with a gust of wind is brought right back safe and sound. It was so serene, so _familiar_ , that Alice didn't recognize it wasn't yet another distressed muttering but rather something new- something cracking open Sammy's door. The creak could almost be heard in the flickering of flames upon wax, all around in the candles of the room.

Her torn lips parted slightly, trying desperately to hold herself in as Sammy's glasses shined over his face and invited her to walk in and join two halves of her time with him in a reunion long overdue. He used to wear them. Every day. He almost looked like _himself._

She didn't know what to feel, but she didn't like it.

"… _So you must remember,"_ she said as gently as one can spit, taking on Sammy's own previous stance in holding her own sides, uncomfortable with his gaze and with this name that was not hers. "You must _see_ now that what I told you before is the truth. _How you hurt me like that after all I did for you."_

The voice wavered back and forth between its dual tones, but its tremble was still evident without that. But the horned woman's venom did not leave its sting; she did not like how unchanged he was.

" _Coward!"_ she almost accused his silence, but it was left unsaid as something left her more unsure, sickened, and out of her own control than before. How dare he call her that- _"Susie!"_ He took that from her! _Joey_ took that from her! _SHE WOULD NEVER BE SUSIE AGAIN-_

As Sammy held Francine in his arms, he stared blindly ahead almost right where Alice's one eye was.

And he smiled.

"No." A gentle reply, even…even soft with _laughter._ God, how could he?! _How could he do this-?!_

"I didn't fire you, Susie," he confessed, "Joey did." His face flinched, smile more of a grimace. "And I didn't realize you didn't know until you were already walking away."

And just like that, it felt like a hole was cut out of the angel's chest. They both remembered. That moment where she caught him talking to his new angel, how she covered her face in shame now that she couldn't be Alice anymore. _The precursor to her never ceasing to be Alice again as soon as she had that choice._

The sudden, twisting knife so, so much as the stress of a studio already falling apart and losing all its love the climax just before the studio flooded and Joey Drew killed them all, even the ones that weren't supposed to be there anymore. She was going to stay and fight back for what was hers, and that's what she ended up doing for all eternity.

How acceptable was it for her to hear there was something more? And just like that, it wasn't Sammy that had a taste of her loss of faith but she for his. The basis and motivation for everything that mattered…not gone but… _different. Dangerously different._

And that's why she didn't dare say a word back, more split than ever as she grit her teeth and had a deathgrip on her own sides, afraid she'd fall apart on the spot.

Sammy exhaled the barest chuckle once more, maybe a tease to Alice but a relief to him. The slightest, almost invisible relief.

And it was enough.

As he felt Francine in his arms, he could hear her soft breath through her nostrils, could sense the small stirs against his torso, but he didn't see the way she looked at all these words and pages around them further and further amazed, it was enough.


	81. Because I Do Adore You

**81- Because I Do Adore You**

" _Because you are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you, I give men in return for you, peoples in exchange for your life."_ – Isaiah 43:4

* * *

There was something Joey told someone else a long, long time ago:

" _They can be...unkind," he said, brow furrowed. "Even if they don't want to be. Because they believe they will always hurt others, even if they try not to. And such an assumption will indeed always circle them back to hurting others, because that is their being. Even if you shake them by the shoulders and tell them this isn't true, they will justify it themselves. They're righteous in their own toxicity."_

His words were...hollow. Like wind through the hole in a tree. It was less like he was talking to someone in particular and more like he was narrating something in a story.

 _"And coming across them, knowing this, you want to save them. But darling, that might just take you down too."_

He had no idea he was detailing his own demise, a fortune teller for everything he never wanted to be.

There was a time he wasn't like that, though.

There was a time…but maybe it was long gone.

* * *

Now, Francine had noticed it before, but only in passing- like accepting that the attic will have dust, or that grass will have morning dew. In the same way, Joey's office had paper. It covered everything, not like a wrapping but simply in...a loose existence, like you fell asleep under a tree in spring and woke up in late autumn, all the leaves surrounding you but not yet carried away by winter's wind. And thus, once she knew what these flimsy remnants of life held within them- once she stared at plenty of them long enough- nothing was special about them anymore, not individually. A collective phenomenon, we take little time to pick up every severed leaf fallen upon the ground because we know why leaves fall; Francine knew why papers were kept.

She was wrong.

This was her third time here, and she was introduced to the ways of this realm, this…tiny, infinite space both empty and full. A place she had assumed was a variation of Joey's "prison." And all that was left of it now was a shrine to what he had adored, the reason why Bendy existed in all his awful glory. Children. Adoration. Creation. Inspiration. The latter three were given back and forth by the first, and regardless of age Mr. Drew loved them almost as his own.

…And sometimes he did entirely.

These drawings were pinned to his cage in beautiful remembrance of how far, far away he was from everything he wanted, everything this was supposed to be for. And there were so many that Francine simply never thought to look at the ones laid like shifting, thin bricks under her feet, or scattered on his desk like torn newspaper. It wasn't till now, with her eyes faded red and sore from the tears he made her shed, that she began to see what else Joey kept sacred here. As Sammy inhaled and exhaled, catching his breath after holding in for years on end, her eyes were caught as her cheek pressed against his cold, damp chest and was forced to study the floor.

These things were different.

"Guys?"

It was more the tone than the word that begrudgingly got the attention of a withering angel and an accursed songwriter, either not having heard it before or having not heard it in good time.

"What…-" Francine began to murmur, brow knitted as she gently pushed her cheek off of Sammy's cold, cold chest, "-Is…all _this?"_

And oh so hesitantly, Sammy let one of the only things he knew was here go, so that she could leave with waves of curiosity and come back with understanding anew. Maybe she could bring something to fill him again, was a sharp, brief sting that came to him without words.

"…What do you mean?"

Her knees bent in the candlelight, hands curled over them as she leaned to view the dim floor. Hair dangled past a frown, and a gleam on her eyes revealed how sharp they were pinned to the ground. There's a…certain emptiness that doesn't feel empty at all when you see something you shouldn't, like when you go through a book and begin to realize it's a diary hidden in plain sight, like when you turn the corner of an alley to hide from the rain and glimpse past blue brick walls someone stealing a kiss like a thief in the night. Something that maybe shouldn't matter to you, but you care all the same.

A detachment- just enough so- with a pang of empathy can do wonders for seeing through lies...

…And it turned out, so much more.

Unspeakable- _literally_ unspeakable; she couldn't find words it- and incomprehensible things. Pictures meant to be text and text meant to pictures- that's the only way she could describe how scrambled she felt to see them. And the indentations upon the paper were bleeding their ink, and the ink ran off the pages and glues the floorboards beneath together.

A room built upon ritual, myth, and incantation. Of course, the origin of instability would end up being the most stable.

"… _Well?!"_ Francine heard the angel inquire anxiously, voice shaken but eager with the disjoint in topics.

She didn't look up, and maybe she couldn't with how mesmerized she was when she answered, "They're… _things. Weird_ things- I mean. I can't- I can't even read them…!"

Her eyes followed the dried stain that bled from what must have been one letter of a word and saw it trace beyond her toes, across page and page and page. She followed it, standing up and walking in a trance; maybe it was, indeed, a hypnosis because it seemed to walk her around…around…around….in a circle, a shuffle under her feet with every step yet not being pushes out of place. She straightened her neck with her chin still angled down, and even the air about her was so thoughtful that Sammy took notice.

Feeling Alice by his side, the prophet reborn to preach yet again asked her what their friend was doing, but the seraph said not a word. Lips painted black parted, and half a face gaped with the kind of discomfort that only comes with discovering why you are who you are.

And the more Francine stared, the more she saw that she was no longer certain if the words had bled to form it or if it was the other way around. A headache burrowed into her skull with how hard she was staring and contemplating, and decisively, she stuck the tip of her shoe and dragged one paper with it.

As the paper slipped out, the ring remained, like it was a shadow instead of a stain.

Far too like the ink demon.

She felt something not meant for human hearts come onto her shoulders and grip them tight.

"Francine?"

Sammy had called for her again, and Alice stood there in wait, and again, she did not reply. The holy- or perhaps its other- often takes breath away.

And that force upon her would either push or pull.

…It pulled.

"It's…a _circle."_ And then more quietly, more for herself: _"But what the fuck is it…?"_

" _FRANCINE-"_

She turned, finding eye sockets that almost seemed to have a brow with which to curl with worry behind those cracked glasses. An outstretched hand reaching blindly ahead stayed in the air a bit, before the four fingers slowly folded and fell to his side alongside a growing expression of unease. He knew Joey now- there was a reason to be anxious of the place that was his.

"Francine, just-…be careful. _Please."_

And as both he and Alice turned their chins up the tiniest bit- the most minute, instinctive agreement that despite wanting to drag her away, she wouldn't and shouldn't be stopped anymore- Francine briefly shut her eyes, squeezed them to compose, and opened them again with an assuring nod.

But something didn't feel right to Alice, and so just in case, she took a step forward-

And simultaneously, so did her opposite. Francine walked to the center of the ground marked for damnation, bent over, and began to move the papers to see what was underneath-

" _Oh my god-!"_

A soft exclamation, but one wholly filled with shock. A hand was thrown over her mouth- deadening the tail end of her words- and the woman reflexively stood back up and scuffled back on her feet. The guardian angel was quick to give her something to bump into, her chilled, black arm wrapping in front of her collarbone as the hand of it gripped the girl's shoulder and the other hand pulled back at her dangling wrist.

"What?!" Sammy returned with an equally hushed but panicked voice. He twitched his head around, listening for a sign of anything new, but as Francine felt her jaw drop, Alice overlooked her shoulder and could see the same that she did.

It was dark. It was yellowed. It had been buried for years, but it couldn't hide any more, and Francine pulled her hand down as what it was, in her mind, now begged the question of what it did.

Feeling her heart race no longer in disgust but in awe, she uncovered her own mouth and stared.

"It's _blood…!"_ Francine finally answered, and she- shoulders surely shaking from the draw of her breath- looked up to Alice in warning before she pushed out of her hold. The angel allowed this and took another step back to let the woman finish what she started.

The hand over the papers hesitated an inch in the air before touching them again, a dull, reddish stain in a splatter across…something…in view just in front of them. She pulled in her bottom lip, eyes minutely shifting back and forth in an unconscious mind's debate of whether or not to touch proof that man should never touch certain things at all. She saw her fingers unevenly begin to curl out in reach, and with one firm swallow, she opened her mouth and carefully pulled the wrappings of a mummy away.

It seemed timeless, how long this effort took, feeling like forever but then as if it was a blink of the eye once it was all done. Sammy heard an exhale from his friend, and he anxiously did and undid fists at his side as he awaited to hear what this was.

She stepped out of the ring, the moved papers still allowing it to be kept perfect and unbroken, a seal unfortunately inseparable by hands.

Looming in front of them was the first ritual circle, the same one behind the cutouts, the one once under Francine's bleeding feet. It was drawn in black, its edge fenced by the inky circle. In the middle, Francine left intact that one discolored sheet- the one red with humanity like she- and surrounding it was…

"Handprints…-" she whispered, "And claw marks…!"

Like someone dipped a cartoon's and then a monster's paw in ink, stains so thick they still looked wet were smeared across the floor. There was more ink, too, like something that had that liquid instead of blood was left to bleed out onto the delicate, thin symbols upon the wood that loosened the boards nailed up between worlds.

" _This is where he came from."_

Francine didn't- couldn't- even turn her head away to hear the seraph speak, and Alice was the same. But-

"GOD- _DAMMIT!"_

But that she could, a sharp gasp as Sammy threw one hand to his head, right above gleaming glasses that barely covered sockets wide with unbearable upset. It was more than blindness that allowed him to pace back and forth like the two women weren't there.

"I knew it! I _KNEW IT!"_ the new man began to shout, "He had these _books_ and he had these _things_ and he had these bizarre, _bizarre_ things he said! He said-! He didn't _miss_ Henry! He didn't _have_ to! It would be _taken care of-!"_ he seethed, baring teeth, "He said Henry was _coming back!_ And of course, I didn't believe him- not after all I heard him _say_ to him when this all started-!"

He didn't, of course, notice Francine furrow her brow less and less in worry and more and more as she began to pick up what Alice hadn't.

"He said to me that fate was like a machine! It could only work so long before you have to patch it back up! No, you fool! YOU messed it up! _YOU_ drove him away! And now it's _KILLED US-!"_

That last shriek faded into the air as his voice was stolen away, squeezed out as two hands gripped upon each of his forearms. She allowed him pause to catch his breath, and so he did, it being his turn to feel the rise and fall in his shoulders second by second as someone else held him.

"…Sammy?" Francine asked in that voice- the one high-pitched every time she found something new where she shouldn't.

…

…

"Yes." A statement, not a question. He wasn't ready for this, but he accepted it anyway.

"…How much do you remember?"

And while Alice sneered behind her, not yet revealing the pit in her stomach, Francine made it so Sammy was thinking the exact same thing as she and her. And it for him was so, very much. He literally softened in her touch, and those sockets of him relaxed with a returning slouch.

"… _Everything,"_ he discovered with a whisper, _"Like it was yesterday."_

And that's why Alice was so unhappy, because she was always the one that held their past safe and sound, and she found that he was recalling things that with the toll of 80 years she could not.

Francine exhaled herself, looking down at the waist of his pants where his nervous, melting self-collected and leaked over onto the floor drip by drip. She was inevitably drawn in by the sight of the engravements both on the floor and in writing, by sacred text and then the art of children, and…

She had to know how one led to the other so very, very badly.

"Tell me."

And so he did. It was jumbled, a narrative that didn't start from the beginning and skipped back and forth as strings tied events together like a conspiracy theorist's board or a spider that made a web so big it couldn't find its way out, but it was as complete and as trustworthy as someone who had just lived through it. Sammy told her and reminded Susie about how Joey used to be the most loving man in the world, how the sun seemed to shine through him because he made it seem like you shined it onto him with your own eyes. How proud he was of everyone- genuinely, sincerely delighted to know you and to be with you.

How by all appearances, he may have been the best man to have ever lived simply because he believed you were your best, too.

About how Sammy overheard the conversation of when Henry was wondering what it would be like if he moved away someday, and something not even Joey knew about till then came out of the old man's soul. And it wasn't wrong to be afraid, Francine knew, but Sammy told her that Joey was so much so that it almost seemed like every other part of him up till then had been a liar. No one knew or ever guessed once they handed their hearts over to him that Mr. Drew maybe wanting to be your foundation didn't always have one of his own, and him crumbling apart would make you crumble too.

And feeling the world shake under his feet, Henry looked over the horizon and ran the other way, leaving Joey to grip onto the edge of his cliff and out of sight.

The rest that stayed to watch Joey dangle were dragged right down, too, with his desperate, possessive hands.

A slow landside that Sammy saw coming. The stress in his eyes, the sting in his voice- they didn't exist before, but did now, and one would expect and even forgive such because it was Mr. Drew, the man who had always wanted the best for them. He still did, but what the best came to mean, of course, was something besides what really was entirely.

Sammy the prophet warned them, and yet he couldn't leave himself. He couldn't leave them behind; he couldn't leave Susie behind. Joey's angel used to believe in him, even when he didn't believe in himself.

He did, of course, believe in something else.

They just didn't know it until something else took them all away.

…

…

…

Francine walked over to the desk behind them as Sammy finished, overlooking what was left of the office, and found these too were the same as Joey left them. And just like with the things upon the floor, she spread her palms over these pages and pulled them away to read the rest of this story. They found scrawlings that read over and over:

" _I miss him…I miss him…My family...My family"_

" _She wouldn't have wanted this, couldn't have wanted this. I'll bring them back. I'll bring him back, and then we'll be whole again."_

" _I need Linda to smile again. She's supposed to smile again."_

And given the nature of the heart of Joey Drew, it was indiscernible and didn't matter if these were right from his mind like the rest of this universe or if he had written these himself before it was even unleashed for others to bear.

And then, most of all, somehow in its own tone of voice:

" _This can be fixed."_

And then they could see his then pen had drawn his feelings in an entirely new way, notes and questions and studies until worries and fears devolved into belief- belief that what he had already believed in was forever true. It wasn't a fault in him or even Henry, but rather the universe itself with its fragile thread of magic weaving through life needed to be pulled and mended again like the sewing of a quilt falling apart at the seams. Francine read them out loud, described them for Sammy as Alice looked over her shoulder too. Her fingers nearly clawed into the table as she curled them in dismay upon finding the final, decisive page open in a tome left upon the seat that detailed how to connect two souls as kin forever. It asked for blood, it asked for ashes, and it asked for something that Joey wrote he did not have.

And so, of course, he used something else instead, and so a ritual meant for consented comradery became a violation. Joey didn't have a piece of Henry to give without him, and for his betrayal in trying to use something else that mattered to his son, Joey and every last inch of the life he had left was killed, and the only family he'd ever see again was the one he accidentally created himself, born right behind where the three trapped souls stood this very moment.

"We have to do something," she decided.

And so, they must.

They gathered the few things Joey left of theirs, Sammy's glasses upon his face, an ax in Alice's hands, and all the bits and pieces of Francine's old life centered behind her back, placed carefully in the shelves of someone who didn't want to let anyone else go. They were to stay, because unlike Joey, letting go was something she could do.

"Are you _sure_ you remember?" the woman hesitantly asked Sammy, tone both bold and frightened all at once. But of course. She remembered how she felt opening the door into the unknown from the second she came to the studio looking for someone. It felt exactly as it did back then as it happened all over again.

"Yes," Sammy confirmed, a small nod as a frown stretched and showed teeth. "There was a room that I…was led to…when you followed the ink demon, Francine; the mask- it hid much of it from my sight but…I remember. There were things in there with his name."

"Well, we'll tell you what we see, and you point us where to go," Alice returned- but not without a scoff. "If you _do_ remember and _aren't just going to get us all killed."_

Francine, solid and resolute with eyes that trembled in her sockets, gave Alice a look. The angel's one eye narrowed.

"Are you sure you want to come? Don't you want _to stay safe? If he-"_ And she choked right up before finishing speaking the worst.

The young woman returned it with a nod. "Yeah. Of course." And then like dusting snowflakes off her head walking across the road one icy day, she shook her head to be rid of trepidation. This was better. This was better than waiting for something to happen to her instead of for her to make something happen. Not again. Never _fucking_ again.

"I have to."

She checked her jeans one last time to make sure her phone was there, and then satisfied, her soft hand came to hold his wet one yet again, feeling like it was meant to be for a final time.

"Lead the way," she said to the blind man, and yet she was the one that opened the door. The knob turned and she let go, allowing an invisible pull to swing it open for them to escape this cage.

And seeing Joey had left them something to look for after all up ahead, Sammy's mask was left scraped and torn as it leaned next to the doorway and watched the three break the barrier of a haven. It was meant to keep them safe, but how can someone be safe at all if it's not by own their choice?

Three people their god loved like his children left to look for what was left a fourth. And his name…

…Was Henry.


	82. Guardian

**82- Guardian**

" _There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love."_ – 1 John 4:18

* * *

To live in the belly of a monster is, indeed, different once you know it is moving around you instead of you moving through it. The haunting of a home becomes more violent once the spirits know _you_ know; there is nothing to hold back. The world is vastly, overpoweringly different when you recognize that it isn't dead, but that it is alive. Such a thing was tangible now, plucking the hairs on Francine's arms like strings of a cello- singing its horrid song in the back of her mind as its choir hid in the shadows of her peripheral, strung its finger slowly, lingeringly down the spine.

This world did not want her where she was.

That's how the three were as they ran through the darkness, filling the hollow bones of a living thing. Francine kept her hand tight around Sammy's as he guided them with his voice.

A pipe **burst** as he said to turn left at the scratched poster of the Butcher Gang.

The floor **broke** upon when they came to the crossroads, forcing them to jump over the gap.

And the lightbulb that swung over the hall **exploded** and left them in the dark when Sammy said they must be getting close.

 _ **Joey did not want them here.**_

It didn't cross any of their minds, however, why he wasn't trying harder, because if he surely was, this would have long been over; what's three souls to a god?

From experience, they should have known.

There was simply too much that begged to be controlled.

As Francine listened over the yelps in her own breath and the shouts of her shoes against rotting, chewing floors, she heard this world scream. The patchwork universe was becoming undone over and over again, stitches falling at the seams before being sewn up like skin in a surgery before her very eyes. A glance to the wall- a searcher. It was throwing it's arms up, pounding against the wall that was breaking apart between them. She screamed and the wall closed shut again, the most sickening squish as it was crushed between boards before it could reach her, only part of it to touch her being the splash of ink on her side.

Alice urged her along, despite her body's insistence to freeze. Francine didn't notice the panic in the other woman's expression; the angel was so strong, so insistent even as she was voluntarily putting herself within all that she detested and feared.

Just for her silly cherub.

At one point, the screech of Norman sounded down the hall, a man refusing to be subdued. _Pound, pound, pound._ Surely, he wasn't _that_ strong. And yet the floor quaked to its foundation every time, throwing the three to the ground like turbulence throwing passengers on a plane. A pinball bouncing back and forth, hardly allowing the woman of flesh and blood to stand as the world tilted back and forth. Ink ran between her fingers as they softened her blow- ink running like a stream that grew more and more forceful as it tried to stave her back.

It didn't need to be said aloud it was just like when she first looked for Mr. Drew, king chained in the depths of his own castle. But now they sought for his beloved son, and just as she escaped death to find the father, so would they find him. They had to; there was no choice.

But then, of course, the worst was to come.

Stress, stress, stress. Blood pressure in black veins going wild. Francine heard the hum, and as she looked back there it finally came. Behind her, filled with emptiness- everything horrid in a human heart taking all the color, even beginning to drain the dye in her clothes with its hungry shadow:

 _Hummmm..._

It reverberated, filling their chests as she waited, and waited, and waited, for surely it was going to come, stopping in place as amid the chaos, something far graver waited to eat her up.

…

...

 **...**

 **Drip.**

Her eyes shot wide just as tendrils like ink spreading in water soaked out of the giant stain behind her back. He was here. **The lord had come.**

"We have to move! _NOW!"_

And her volume increased the grey shroud's size and sound. In the darkness grew shinier and shinier a moving figure, a body slick with the same thing that made her friends alive and yet was not kind to her at all- not anymore. Alice ordered her to keep her head forward, but she couldn't help it. The shake in the angel's tone- the sheer panic- it only gave Francine more reason to look at what she was afraid of. The teeth underneath sodden horns seemed pearlier with each limped step, bouncing back and forth in and out but overall gradually into sight as the seconds passed faster and faster. Steps sloshing into a run, run, _run._ Hands coming forward, reaching, grabbing, _clawing-!_

 **"I CAN'T-!"** the old man's voice screamed all around them.

Alice gasped and turned around finally to see **him** too, just as horrible mercy would be rained upon the one of them deemed most precious.

 _ **"I CAN'T LET YOU!"**_

Francine, the slowest, screamed.

And just as their God swept down his mighty hand to reclaim his beloved lost lamb- so close that his pained breath was not only heard but felt underneath her skin and into her own lungs like an infection that made it hard for her to breathe too- Francine saw his giant, gloved hand ready to save her be shot down with a blurred force. She fell back into Sammy, who shouted himself in terror and held her close as they skidded to a halt once again.

Alice, as Joey had known, was always her guardian angel.

The seraph panted, her legs outstretched and ax ready to swing again. The demon screeched, bleeding at the wrist and staining his white glove, murky drops of his own soma falling from bulbous fingertips and into the living wood that carried his blood and that of all his treasured children. He took another, stunted move and Alice swung the blade from over her shoulder again, groaning with rage and effort as the wood of the handle was parried by a wet yet solid arm. His breathing, as with Francine, filled her ears, and the eyeless gaze of the demon burrowed into the holes in her face like parasites eating her inside out.

But it did not stop her. Maybe it never did before, either. No matter how scared she was of the demon, she had never complied with his will to keep her in her place. Alice always came back, came back to reclaim the day as her own. It was only fitting that the final day, too, would pass much the same way.

Francine shouted her name, Sammy the only thing keeping her from running to save her friend, and that was all Alice needed to believe once and for all...

...That sometimes the progress of another means more than all of your own. Love requires a sacrifice, and Alice indeed loved her.

"GO! _I'll be fine!_ _The wo_ rst he can do is KILL ME!"

Her grimace twisted across her face until after the longest second in the world, her lips had curled up. She was a broken doll learning to smile once again- both so another may as well but also so that she too may have opportunity to smile again someday-

Sunshine. She missed sunshine. Hand in her hand, seeing Francine happy and alive.

…-With her.

In retaliation to such hope, the demon bent his arm is such a way it shoved her back, hair thrown around her face and getting caught in her halo. Her head was thrown down, but with horns pointed at him like a bull and the slit of her eye visible was filled with daggers that had waited in a sheath for a very, very long time.

Time to see if they had become rust with all these tears shed.

"Fix this, and _maybe it'll bring me back."_

And with that, she threw herself at him again, not another word, not another look. She would come back, somehow. Her soul would either remain in the ink, die forever, or feel daylight again, and so there was nothing worth ceremonial grace or last words of wisdom. Alice was ready for anything that came after this, even if she'd never live to see heaven come down to earth, or even if she was there as hell would raise out of the ground.

Francine couldn't stay to watch the eternal struggle of angel versus demon as her prophet blindly pulled her away, but she refused to shut out the sounds that chased at her heels, grew dimmer and dimmer and yet pierced her even worse the farther it seemed to be. She heard the angel curse, she heard the seraph scream, and then distantly- just as they found the door- she heard the woman finally pass away. Her voice croaked sweet with those two tones, different ones that both loved and loathed everything Francine brought with her. And so maybe it was worth such split feelings, as it killed her in the end- perhaps something worthwhile to die for.

They both hoped so, even if only one of them had seen it coming.

Susie returned to the very thing she hated most, her black and white puss soaking into the floorboards as she saved a life, metal door closing somewhere she would never be able to see. Just as they had met, Alice knew that there was a door that was never supposed to open for the strange, nosy girl but did so for her all the same.

Her purpose from the moment she stepped foot into Joey Drew Studios was to be an angel. And now she was finally what she wanted to be all along.

Morning would break before this woman once again.


	83. Father

**83- Father**

" _And he identified it and said, 'It is my son's robe. A fierce animal has devoured him. Joseph is without doubt torn to pieces.'"_ – Genesis 37:33

* * *

" _Fix this…and maybe it'll bring me back."_

Francine had no idea why Alice said that. That wasn't part of the plan. They just had to do something- that was it. They only knew something had to finally change- no real fucking idea what that actually meant.

Alice would come back, Sammy knew; she hadn't "died" in a long time, but the puddles would keep her, of course. They kept her before.

…Then why? Why say it like that?

What was at stake besides Francine's own mortality? And what was she in this world beyond a hope that if she can survive, maybe there's something worth living for?

" _Plenty more,"_ Alice would have said if she could.

Because facing the demon, she had already seen something that would make itself known very, very soon.

After all, there was one toon that died and never came back.

* * *

"Copper and gumdrops-"

"Joey-"

"-And flower chains and rings-"

"What are you doing, Joey?"

"Listing a few of my favorite things!"

A young man chuckled at his strange father. His hands squeezed the grass at his sides as he sat next to a fellow that looked nothing like him, perhaps, while being in a place in his life he never expected to be.

But even if it wasn't the expected didn't mean it wasn't right. That's how it felt to him- right.

Their second day on vacation, the budding- no… _blooming_ artist looked up to the puffy clouds in the sky and felt sunshine tangle his hair. There was something in him, something that always wanted to reach up to the heavens since he was just a little boy. Joey did, too, and perhaps that's why he and his adoptive son felt so safe being vulnerable about dreams and loves with one another. There was a difference though; one man wanted to touch what was above their heads, and the other wanted to take it as his own.

But they admired that difference. A gentle grasp upon fate versus claiming tomorrow with a clenched fist, and perhaps neither was entirely bad nor good.

The young man thought of this in this moment, a smile flickering softly upon his face as peaceful but bright eyes caught light of the sun and the fire in Joey's red hair.

"You're a strange guy, Joey." Not as if this phrase hadn't been used as an insult towards the old man, but in this case his son meant it as a tease; it was taken as such.

"I'm a lot of things, my dear," the other cartoonist replied, humor dripping off his tongue like sap thick on a maple tree. "But-"

And then, with a similar, sharper light in his own eyes, the old man said something the younger did not anticipate.

"-What are _you?"_

Father and son looked at each other, the latter turning his head against the soft wind to someone already facing him- evaluating him, perhaps, in the most loving way one can. And, as always, nothing was there that was new, and yet- as Joey always was- it somehow felt distinctly, importantly _different._ Smile dropped not in unhappiness but ponderance, the young man held his gaze a bit so two soft, blazing lights locked in their meeting eyes. His head turned, breeze combing dark locks as pursed lips opposed what was in front of crossed legs.

Of course, Joey knew how to make something so silly into something so suddenly significant to life itself.

The man saw green blades of grass and the tiny wild bluebells hidden in their overgrown shadows, swaying back and forth…back and forth…back and forth…as the wind moved him the same way too.

And with the father who adored him so looking on with nothing but total adulation, the person sitting in the greenery upon the tallest hill in the field brought his stare up to the sky that seemed so close to here when he was standing at the bottom just before. His words were tender, but bold- ready to be picked up by the air and blown through the clouds and past the planets all the way out there.

" _I am…-"_

* * *

"Henry."

Sammy murmured the name he had remembered seeing not so long ago, but the man himself gone for 50 years. Even longer, though, he had been gone until Sammy remembered the person that left a shadow for Francine to walk in had been someone he had truly known before it all had gone to hell.

The woman that reminded Mr. Drew of his own lost son was in Sammy's arm now. The door had closed behind them and as they listened to Alice die, her back slid down on the wall until the young woman was slumped on the floor. Sammy, in all he could do for her, held his lamb as her heart race and tired, tired eyes tried not to cry; he fulfilled her only request-

" _Who was he?"_

She wanted to know more about he that motivated Joey to curse them all to this. He knew Joey missed him, knew he had gone, and knew Joey would have done anything to get him back…apparently, twice.

And both times had failed so, so terribly, it seemed.

And so the Lawrence who knew him, hardly stable himself as his body melted with fear and stress of what was behind them and what he knew loomed ahead, abided in remembrance- reverence, perhaps.

Because Henry didn't deserve this either, did he?

The lost musician tilted his chin up as dripping, dripping arms held around her back and a wet chin rested upon her head. Certainly, this was as much for him as it was for her.

"He was a young man…" Sammy began, tone soft and grip shaking, desperate to forget something he used to long for- his lord sending the angel back to the puddles. "…Even younger than me, and I was _damn_ young."

She didn't see ahead- couldn't with Sammy in front of her- and so they were both blind to the few falling papers from the chamber behind, shelves upon shelves of books and pictures and keepsakes Joey tried to keep locked away. An archive- a different sort of sacred place than the kind Sammy himself once found sacred; ironically, it could have been to him now with all it represented.

Afraid of the demon returning for them, focusing on what mattered became desperately natural with calm or silent voices.

"Joey…he saw so much in us, Francine. We were just kids. Henry and-…Susie-…and I…and others- we were _kids_. And he believed in us. At least, for a while. But goddammit, he-" And his voice cracked. _"He really did."_

The two shivered, knowing he was listening, and Francine nudged against Sammy to indicate that for that very reason, they need to keep moving. _He could only be so distracted._

"Tell me more," Francine insisted, squeezing her hand in his; a calm voice hid a desperation- a high ground upon which to stand as the rest of the world began to sink.

"He was…a kind person," Sammy continued to narrate of Henry, the sounds spinning around his head as Francine led him by the hand slowly around, her eyes gazing over all the things here for the lost artist's name. "Quiet, at times, and didn't raise his voice unless you were really that much deserving of it. Smile scrunched up his whole face, reached his eyes…-"

Sammy stopped in place here, momentarily, his fingers gently rolling over his own face; perhaps he was trying to replicate that grin from so far back. Of course, the curled lips faded back down as urgency filled them again.

"…And he was a…wonder to work with. He and Joey? They fed a lot of pipedreams together, but…" He chuckled, sourly. "Look at all the pipes this dream of theirs got us. Art come to life _all_ come true."

Bitter? Yes. But perhaps nothing could be bitter enough after all the years.

He shook his head, squeezing Francine's hand again as he heard a rumble in the distance. They had to keep going.

"Animator. Lead animator. Good at it, too. He designed Bendy singlehandedly-…well. So to speak. Rumor was that the he based it on a real person. He-"

A bookshelf fell in front of them, causing the woman to shriek and the man to reflexively pull her back. They stood there, limbs outstretched in panic, before nothing more came just yet and Francine pulled herself out of Sammy's arms again to lead them on and past the obstruction. The man's voice shook, but it still kept him solid- despite his melting self in this distress- to recall what put them here.

"I…I know for sure Boris was inspired by him. Kind, calm- I can see it." A pause. "…Yeah. I can see it," he added more somberly.

Francine frowned as she helped guide her friend over the overturned shelf, eyes flickering all over for signs they could finally stop that wouldn't come. Indeed, it looked like a breeze was blowing through the room, maybe trying to hide the word she was looking for with its rustling and distractions. And likewise, something stuck Sammy with deadly, deadly seriousness.

He realized something.

" _Francine,"_ he whispered. The one by that name did her best not to let her heart beat any faster; the tension was tangible not just in the dark, moving room but strung within his words.

" _Boris."_

And her eyes shot wide because if Boris represented someone, it meant something, too, that she had never been able to meet him.

But…it turned out to be for another reason, as well, that her breath hitched. As they finished crawling over the books the studio had thrown down in a fit, there was a loud, distinctive screech.

"…What is that?" Sammy nearly squeaked. "It-…"

"A door," Francine answered.

In the archives they've traversed, it had been full of shadows. Lightbulbs dangled overhead with such dim light, swinging back and forth, back and forth. She gasped and jumped in her skin as they went out in a blink then and there, and suddenly a light was flooding up ahead, past the next corner.

Both their hands gripped at once as they braced themselves for the truth ahead.

* * *

" _I never meant to hurt him."_

A whisper of his own as a young man, staring at his feet, only had the strength to move his hand under his lover's arm. He didn't reach for the fingers resting on the bed, but they ended up clasped all the same.

"Of-…of course you didn't, Henry…" Marvin, a man so confident, so vibrant and loud, was for once hushed and wide eyed after all his partner had told him happened that day. Dark eyes flicked over the man he adored, lips slightly parted with words he was still trying to find. "You were just…asking for advice, darlin'. Who the hell was he to take it so…so…-"

The man whose daughter Joey called his own grandchild still couldn't believe all that had happened, and yet somehow saw it coming. So attached- so _easily_ attached Joey was. Ain't all bad but…-

…As he saw tears drip down Henry's face, Marvin knew that attachment had to come with preparedness, and apparently 50 years of age wasn't enough for Joey to be ready when things don't turn out as expected.

And so instead of paying mind to a gut feeling proven right, Marvin chose to brush the bangs out of Henry's face. The strands of hair moved as gently, as softly as ever through his fingers as he made room to lean in and place a kiss slow and apologetic onto his forehead.

Henry just squeezed his hand tighter as he tried not to sob.

"All you did was ask what your dad would think about moving," he repeated a fact, pulling the smaller Henry so his powder blue shirt was much closer to his own red flannel. "That's all! It's…normal, darlin'- it's normal for people to wonder."

Another kiss, Marvin pulling his future husband into his chest.

"Not your fault that he couldn't wonder himself."

Finally, the other man twisted his head in response, allowing Marvin to put his chin on the top of his head and stain his shirt a darker shade with tears.

"I just…I thought…-"

"I know," the taller one interrupted with a soothing, affirming murmur, his stubble scruffy against Henry's forehead. He knew he couldn't finish, and he didn't have to.

Joey didn't mean to, but he had always been hiding something. And when something came to light under threat of change, the perfect image Henry had of him fell apart.

Marvin sighed into his love's black locks, Henry feeling warm breath into his scalp and making him sigh himself- albeit much more shakily. That was more than enough for the comforter, rubbing his nose against the other's skull as he began to contemplate too. What a mess…what a mess…

Only so much left to do with it. Marvin shouldn't have been so surprised at the logical conclusion.

" _I think we should go."_

Henry's response was muffled into his chest, and maybe that's why it seemed to cut right into him. But…it was in the other man's heart too. Marvin closed his eyes and began to rock them both back and forth as they sat upon their bed.

" _I think so, too."_

Blue and red wrapped into each other in the dull brown backdrop of their bedroom with the blinds closed, so tangled in the grief of change that maybe they never fell asleep that night. But their daughter was- safe and sound- just a few feet away in her crib, and making sure she had a stable life to rest her head in was what mattered most.

Joey agreed, but in an entirely different way. People can love just as much as the other but express it so that they never once match. And like the father and son- so very, very unalike yet kindred in spirit to the very core- found much in common in their different ways, and so it meant that much more when it was truly put to the test.

Sometimes, love becomes rash decisions. Henry, afraid of the first real glimpse of negativity into the man he set his foundation upon, ran away in fear of the floor crashing beneath his feet. Marvin, in his love for his fiancé and their child, encouraged it. And so it only made sense for Joey to feel all alone in a world he created to share with his cherished family.

And in his love, he did not blame them.

In his love, he blamed fate.

In his love, he found himself entitled to take back what was meant to be his.

 _Just as a good father should for his beloved son._

But as we all know so well, it took everything but.

Now Francine and Sammy just wanted to know if it had taken Henry after all.


	84. Son

**84- Son**

" _I thank my God in all my remembrance of you…"_ \- Philippians 1:3

* * *

" _I don't_ _ **want**_ _you to die…!"_

The room was dark, corners washed in shadows. The blinds were open, letting in the cold, biting air blown through the window from stars in a black sky. With the way he was crying- on his knees, leaning over the side of her bed, both hands gripping just one of hers- you would have thought that Mrs. Drew was really dying right then and there.

But no, she was just old, and she was just telling her son that some things become more and more inevitable with age.

That people come and go, all in their due time.

But isn't that everything fate _shouldn't_ be? Wasn't magic meant to preserve things that are _good?_

Shouldn't the good _stay?_

"Why can't you just… **live forever?!** I know you _can't,_ mama, but-… _ **why can't you?!"**_

Nonsense from someone so desperate, only at the first- not even sign. The first _wisp_ of a possibility Joey would eventually lose someone he loved, whom he built his life around and upon.

This wasn't a time where they expected her to die, but the idea reduced him to tears…

… _Just as a good son should do at such an affront to the way things should be._

And an omen it turned out to be, as death came for her suddenly, unexpectedly a short time after that night, and it affirmed that Joey had every right to be so afraid.

Joey Drew's mother was in every sense of the word mythical. A myth herself that told such stories- made anyone believe that anything is possible if you listen to her long enough. She raised Joey to believe in magic, and she raised Joey to believe he was magic, too, just by existing, and he believed the same of her.

Somehow in such admiration and closeness there came distance. She was a fairy tale, even when she saw and spoke to her lovely boy every last day. If he was born in a different day and age, he would have heard his mother be called a changeling, and with the way she passed things onto him, he would have been that too. People fear the unknown while fae embrace it, so surely the confidence- this…magic about them both made them infallible in some way humans are not; this was the spell that bound almost all who knew the Drews, even upon each other.

Maybe this is how Joey was so unprepared. Because he was human, too, and so he _did_ fear change. Just not how people expected, not after seeing the sparkle in his eyes and warmth in his heart. A fire, he was, and fires are good.

And fires burn, burn, burn if something doesn't control them.

He did rebuild, but he did not consider her death as true loss. He should have, but he didn't; he didn't realize there was another way to cope, with his indoctrination to always "be his true self" with smiles and wonder and no inkling of actual, meaningful sadness. That would have disappointed her, surely, to fail in such an egregious way. So he did obediently as she asked and rekindled the magic in the family's blood, went forth to bring that brightness in him to the world…not expecting to blind his own child.

And without even knowing it- and certainly with no intent- with the way she filled his head with hopes, dreams, and legacies, Joey's mother had become her son's demon.

* * *

The archives were, as Sammy recalled from when he came here with his sight, certainly something to behold. Dreamlike, as everything was that brought them closer and closer to the truth of this place- more surreal. The bookcases towered along walls with no ending height- turning with a slight twist like somewhere up there was a giant that twirled them like string in its fingers. And there were so many things upon the shelves that one could sit and stare at a single spot for hours as they tried to unfold the story told without touching the binding of a single book. Objects- an orange yoyo with its loop unheld by idle hands for years. A purple locket someone used to keep in their pocket and clutch when things went wrong to remember some things are right. Green dice and red playing cards, shining like gems stowed away from a black and white world.

The rest of the studio was devoid of these things because everything personal that meant something to someone, and the depth and detail in the vastness filled to the brim proved just how much was taken away.

Memories of people that weren't allowed out.

Poor ol' Sammy Lawrence didn't know this, though, back when he retrieved his glasses from here in his single-minded trance. But here were the disciples now, running down with soft pants of breath and a tremble in their grunts of effort, down its aisles in hope that the store's warden wouldn't find them as they stole its secrets away. Indeed, the darkness was so, so much thicker than before wherever it was seen; Sammy didn't need eyes to _feel_ it tangibly in the air. Francine didn't even need to hear past the thunder of her heartbeat to know the **drips** of Bendy might be just seconds away.

Wanting to feel nothing else, the man gripped her hand tight as the labyrinth inch by inch either allowed them a way out or further in.

Groaning, holding her palms against the door after pulling them to the other side, the woman noticed her heart trying to get out of its chest from more than just the run. Cold- metal under her fingers. A final, loud exhale before she squeezed her eyes shut, and a gentler sigh as she wearily opened them once more as she lifted herself back up to find-…

The silence that followed made Sammy's stomach flip.

"Francine…?"

…

…

"Sammy?" Her voice closer to him now, but not facing him. He could tell, and with the way her words struck they might as well have been written right in his head. "When you saw his name…how did it look?"

A pause, as he wasn't sure if he wanted what came after his own reply. He tilted his head and raised it up again, but it only could delay so long.

"It was just…a name on a book, I think." Couldn't even make himself ask the obvious "why?"

Another pause before suspicions were confirmed.

 _"…This definitely isn't what you saw."_

Past her gaping expression was something…new. Like the rest of the archives, there were things everywhere, but it felt so…different. Just simply, purely, fundamentally _different._ Posters on the wall- Boris and Bendy together, hand in hand in nearly every one. She moved to hold Sammy's once more upon their sight, too, lest her friend grow afraid of the quiet or she lose her mind at it all. Smiling, friendly faces scratched and marred with time, but still preserved just like them. They were plastered on either side of a room- or hall, given the nature of how quickly shadow came from the distance ahead- and once her gaze trailed with it, there-

"AH-!"

The woman flinched as something sparked, her shoulders raising and free hand clawing the air with an abrupt and unstable step back; what wasn't posters was mangled- wood boards bending and twisting to show the monster of the machine just behind them, like peeling off skin to see flesh and veins- pipes and wires. They looked _hurt,_ even, and it made her feel the same way.

Especially so when Francine saw what was gluing them hardly in place was the lifeblood of all their pain- _the ink._

So stunned she was that it took a moment for her to recognize Sammy had again taken a protective stance, putting himself more in front of her and yelping himself at her own noise.

"I'm- I'm fine," she soothed quietly, unable to hide the tremor in her voice as she pulled in her lips and let them go in a sigh. "Just some…electrical stuff." She swallowed hard, feeling stress in how hard her cheeks pinched under her squinting, aching eyes at the occasional sudden brightness ahead. "We gotta be careful walking through." A squeeze on his hand came for emphasis, which at first was stiff and unresponsive, but then it eased right back with hers with a hesitant but renewed vigor.

"No way but forward," he bitterly knew without being told.

That wasn't the only reason for trepidation, though. Inkling by inkling, Francine would find a word for it eventually, like the pipes started to leak down her back and make her shiver. It would be _"vulnerable."_ Not just for her- this truly was something not intended to be seen.

Then…why let it be found?

Her question was interrupted as something else revealed itself, too, a look of unease becoming straight amazement. Past the posters that tried to patch and cover wounds of a building that should have been long dead was something that seemed to be dead itself-

Dolls on dusty shelves, models and sketches- just about anything you could imagine this character take the shape of-

"…What do you see?" the prophet anxiously asked, the black "flesh" underneath his eye sockets pinching up a bit behind glasses, dents almost seeming to twitch like troubled eyes.

And soft and shaking upon her tongue, both knew it meant something but neither what when she replied:

 _"Boris."_

After all, the place was alive with magic. Anything was possible, evidently.

The head of a dancing demon was tilted to lay its head on another plush that seemed far too kind to be something as sinister as a wolf, both looking on blankly in frozen adoration. Friends forever, and ever, and ever.

"Could he be here too-?"

Another ponderance cut short as in an oh so familiar way to when Francine visited Joey in his hiding, the dark was pulled back and again bestowed something for her to find.

Someone was here, alright. But maybe not anymore.

The woman in blue didn't know the color of her shirt nearly matched the one of the man in the picture frame she cautiously moved to grasp in her hands, but the look in his eye was bright enough between them. A small piece of glass twinkled both visually and audibly as it fell from deep cracks with her lifting, and as she trailed her round fingers carefully across what was left in front of the photo to wipe the dust off, she saw the fresh trails of someone else of human size that had done the same.

Not a spot of ink upon those smiling faces.

"…A man," she narrated to her anxiety-ridden friend, "With-…with another. I think they're-…friends? Dating? One's holding a baby and just-…they look really happy, I think."

Sammy frowned, unsure if he recalled anything of particular significance about an infant.

Meanwhile, the pipes' horrid echo seemed more hollowing by the second, as it _did_ mean something to someone present but unseen as always. Francine didn't notice it getting worse as suddenly, Sammy did recall something after all.

"Black hair," he murmured, face directed at the frame, "Dark eyes. Asian with a-…a soft smile and a button up shirt?"

To a "t" exactly who was looking back at them. It was staggering. Maybe it shouldn't have been. He had come back eventually, after all, and hardly changed a bit besides a few gray hairs and some wear upon his face; this man was only about as old- when he came as Sammy's first sacrifice to his lord- as Joey was when he sacrificed them all.

 _"Sammy!"_ she choked, the shock that thick in her throat, "How the _hell'd_ you-"

A grin of a different sort waiting for her as she turned to question her comrade, somehow both distressed and smug from a man behind broken glasses that matched the frame that almost crumbled in her fingers. Eyes weren't there to flicker, but the empty sockets in his wet skull somehow conveyed the same thing.

A single, quiet laugh, and then the curve in his lips faded.

"That's him."

His head turned forward and down as the implication settled in, Sammy mourning something he didn't know was lost. Just like Francine, he had no idea how important he was- what a mistake it had been to try to send the sheep to sleep.

And as he had before, he lifted up his hands in front of him with a different sort of disgust- what they did instead of what they were made of. They flexed minutely- humanly- with his revelation.

 _"Henry."_

Francine had allowed him to let go of her, but all the delicate worry she had remained. Another electrical shock from behind silhouetted her hair with a sputter and revealed her pupils moving over him up and down, and she knew she couldn't ever say anything to quite make up for what was happening to him in this moment.

To occupy herself, her eyes then fell upon three more things. A very old woman in a wheelchair, quilt across her lap, a vase- no…that's an _urn-_ and a page of paper with nothing on it but a black splatter.

It took a bit for her gaze to be caught by movement- Sammy's fingers now instinctively, cautiously reaching for something she hadn't noticed yet, and seeing it made her throat clench tighter and insides ache as if to prepare for the worst.

 _"Henry…!"_ she repeated, as that was the name on the tape smudged underneath his thumb.

Lamb and shepherd lifted their chins up, another spark in the distance lining their profiles, as they readied themselves to find company of another lost from the flock long, long ago.

The heavy _click!_ of when Sammy pressed the play button somehow felt worse than her flinch than before.

 _…_

 _…_

 _…Static…_

…

…

 _…Static_ …

….

…

The expression froze upon her in a horror growing and growing with each passing second of white noise, making her face hurting worse than anything else her body had been subjected to in the time she had spent trapped and tortured here. She ended up gasping when she opened her mouth to swear in utter dismay only for it be interrupted by a voice.

And such great juxtaposition did it have to the happy man in the photo.

It began with coughing- gagging, even- as a man much older than when he had left the studio began to tell about his time here. Sometimes the audio was clear, sometimes it seemed decayed, like the ink around it was acidic and still working to hide the parts that stung most. The gaps ranged from a second to several and left their hearts feel empty with the reverb of the pipes and the machine that sung a strain with no words.

But it said enough.

"Boris-… Yeah, buddy, I-…glad you're safe now too-… But-… The demon is-… have much time! Boris, Joey- Joey did this to you!-... Joey!-… I have to leave. Boris, listen!-… I found the door-…make a run for-… I don't know what'll happen, but I damn can't stay here. Are…you with me, buddy?"

Her lip trembled at the clarity of these last words, having never heard his voice and maybe never hearing it again.

…A chuckle, soft and relieved. Its voice had waited a very long time to let go.

"Then let's get out of here, Boris. You and I-"

He didn't sound done by the way his tone sounded at the end of the tape, but there it was. The static returned as the recorder tried to play what wasn't there, and so eventually a murky thumb pressed it to stop.

Only then did they notice that whatever else was sounding off had gotten louder…and louder…and louder.

Like a frog being boiled to death so very slowly, only now did they hear the **drips** were in the pipes around them and saw that the shadows around them had a familiar, splattering shape instead of an ordinary fade.

 **Footsteps-**

Something lit up in Francine's mind.

 **Footsteps-**

She turned to Sammy, ready to burst at the seams.

 ** _Running-_**

"Sammy!" She tugged hard at his arm to get him to face her, bringing his gritting teeth to her level. "Did Henry ever die?! _DID YOU MEET HIM IN THE PUDDLES?!"_

And from his gaping mouth came nothing.

The sound, instead, was screaming as something slammed into the metal door some ways behind them, the echo of it rattling the posters on the wall until they turned more and more yellow and curled at the edges like sickness made them grow old, and it turned the Borises to face the intruders to a sacred shrine.

And shortly after the scream- something so deep inside she wouldn't have thought of it if fear didn't jump it to the tip of her tongue. She clenched her fists and shouted to the heavens, praying to be heard-

 _"JOEY!"_

Turns out something that the fellow by that name told her when they last met wasn't a lie, after all. Even though the demon didn't hesitate to hit the door over, and over, and over again till its middle started to cave and bend- even though the floor rattled and pipes began to burst their ink and spray at each other, staining the smiling toons and slinking to the floor in hopes to drown those inside…

Something _was_ different.

She _knew_ it.

 _She believed._

"JOEY- JOEY _STOP!_ I JUST WANNA TALK! LET ME TALK TO Y-"

A hand covered her mouth, muffling another word as knuckles clenched around her jaw. Sammy didn't understand what she was doing, but it _would_ get her killed, and he had spent every waking second preventing that as of late.

Turns out it wasn't unplanned, shrieked with nothing else to do. With a groan, she threw his hand off, gripping the wrist tight as she could till her fingers felt numb. His hand was held between them, up in the air as everything felt like it was falling apart and she was going to _encourage_ it.

"Sammy- Sammy trust me- just _TRUST-"_

And then once again, she did the same as she had always done. Every decision she had made was answered not with a call…

…But with a fall.

The floorboards broke underneath her feet and she began tripping on things tumbling down right along with her. Despite asking for it, she shrieked again and reflexively tried to cling to her friend by her side. He did the same, his own shout filling the room as his entire self was thrown to try to save her. _Not again-_ so many times he failed her, _NOT AGAIN-!_

Through the cracks again in the homemade universe and through Sammy's fingers alike, she fell, and he couldn't see anything but the puddles down where Mr. Drew took her.

Joey hadn't lied, because even though the studio listened to him, he listened to _her_ always. And sometimes, a reaction to a reaction is more than enough to change things for good. All in his hands, but not as if others have nothing to do with what he did.

Everything, in fact, had to do with others, and this she finally understood.

And once again, with a pathetic _clang!_ against the ground in the distance and the world ripping itself apart, Sammy was left alone with his god.


	85. Hymn of the Dark Puddles

**Author's Note:** This is approaching the finale of this main story in my AU. I have about everything planned and it'll be organized between 1-3 chapters after this one. My full intention is to continue writing for this AU in some way after the upcoming conclusion, and I'll better address that towards the end here.

Thank you everyone for your support. I've been working on this since October 2017 and I never imagined I'd make it to chapter 7 let alone chapter 85, and I've been planning this ending for about a year now. I can't- truly cannot- express my thankfulness for your support enough.

As always, you're free to either contact me either here, on my AO3 account of the same name, or on my tumblr of the same name.

 **85- Hymn of the Dark Puddles**

" _Pray without ceasing…"_ – 1 Thessalonians 5:17

* * *

Time gushes like a river, wrapping fate around obstacles and lifting determination over fields of distance. There are places that it has never touched, or that was washed over and pulled away long, long before, leaving behind beaches of memory and shells of emotions and magics of that time.

There are places that should have never been touched.

And places that have flooded because mankind was convinced they know better.

We call these places different things, in different cultures and different languages, but we've learned- collectively- to be _wary;_ be wary of the places where the riptides touch the trees, invisible in all but how the wind blows branches in such an uncanny way it can't be real; be cautious of land where creatures of the deep be found, for surely they aren't supposed to be here; don't try to find the source of rivers, lest you get lost in the ocean.

And so fairy rings, demons, and destiny are left alone. We learned. We know better. Ancestors have left us books and tales and songs to prove it- that it has been done, and it should never be done again.

But reverence and appreciation so quickly become mistaken for utility with the subject of magic.

And so people died.

Just a man, Joey _believed_ he knew better. Joey _believed_ he was just. Joey _believed_ he could save if he called upon that which was bigger than he.

And now with the death of all he cared for, Joey, too, believed he deserved to die, as perhaps others before him did tampering with the thin, fragile veil of fate with reckless claws and fingers. As others did finding death was too easy to escape a rapture that had forgotten them.

But somehow, in an entirely new way, he still held faith all that he had before his own destruction, and its survival into purgatory created a world both at his mercy and a world asserting no such mercy upon him. And everyone he loved were subject to the whims and plans of an uncured apprehension to let go and allow things to be.

Men aren't supposed to be God, let alone be fit to play one in this last story he'd ever pen in ink.

The swirling puddles were never still, never without agony. Francine knew that better than almost anyone else as she fell down, down, down through them once more. Their thick, runny sludge formed reaching hands and wailing faces as she fell past, having watched- or rather felt- her all this time beneath her feet and both wanted what she had and feared it'd all be stolen from her anyway as so many others did before. Being her second time among them, she had more awareness to notice the details of immortality. Her screaming was replaced by breathlessness, having never seen… _people_ in there before. This ink around her was made of _people._

But of course it was. The people were made of ink, down to the very soul, and so souls forged the form they took out of the only thing they had left to their name.

Even with no true up and down, Francine felt her hair being whipped in the fall, combed through almost as if the hands could reach her. A spotted face gasped just before something flew past her head-

A _thwap!_ of turning pages and the woman saw a book fly the other way, seeing that the floorboards above either were fixed or disappeared with only darkness that way. Something chased behind it, too, like glitter behind a shooting star- pale, brownish specs like flower petals falling from a dying cherry tree.

She couldn't tell yet, hardly able to sense herself at all, but that was almost precisely what they were.

Taking in a loud inhale to calm while adrenaline pinched every nerve in her to scream, Francine then looked back down to see nothing waited below, either.

But one thing had gotten her this far. One thing would get her out.

"JOEY?!" she called for him again, her voice echoed and rippling in the souls around her, "JOEY, WHERE ARE YOU?!"

Francine's eyes glanced wildly about for a response.

 _Come on, Joey…you let her this far…-_

She swallowed, feeling the collar of her shirt whipping against her neck.

"JOEY!" the woman screamed again as she called back, instead, on memories. After all, he was always watching. He had always reacted. "JOEY, I KNOW YOU'RE _SCARED!_ I'M SCARED _TOO!"_ Another desperate gasp as she felt her breath being lost like someone punched it right out, feeling herself so close to hyperventilating, if she hadn't already started. Her desperation was all that kept words pushing out empty lungs.

Sammy depended on her.

Norman did.

Alice did!

All these people- these were _people_ in the puddles! _Everyone!-_

"BUT WE- WE NEED TO TALK! _PLEASE! YOU LET ME THIS- YOU LET ME THIS-…"_

And the glistening nothingness all around her seemed blurred as her last words began drifting away, her own throat seeming to choke itself in fear. Francine's plea for empathy as well her orientation in space left her all at once, and she felt herself tipping physically as she lost grip consciously. It was so much, too much, and it would all end _here?!_ Halfway to hell, dropping down to its gates without ever reaching it?! Is THAT what this was all for?! She was SO close, _so FUCKING close-!_

As a body going limp was tilted more upright to fall, one arm was lifted up above her head. Through dizziness, something brushed against her fingertips.

Instinctively, she gripped it with her remaining strength, a trust reciprocated as she found relief under her feet that then rested her on her side.

Time was a gush of water bursting where it shouldn't, and she was the rock in the river that Joey had always been looking for. An angel could see her from the tides that swallowed her whole, and the puddles for the first time since remembered the hymn of a prophet that at one time tried in vain to convince the congregation that hope was worth looking for.

Sammy waited ashore and prayed God could have mercy, too.


	86. A Rock in the River

**86- A Rock in the River**

" _See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are. The reason why the world does not know us is that it did not know him."_ \- 1 John 3:1

* * *

What sensation could have matched this?

 **Drip.**

What horror? What…magnitude of godliness?

 **Drip.**

… _Ungodliness_.

 **Drip.**

Sammy heard the demon at the end of the hall, the loudness of the streams of ink rushing from the ceiling giving no hint as to if the beast himself was nearing or if it was only his darkness.

But what did it matter when it meant he was here all the same?

Indeed, that was true as with each lurching, dragged step, the ink demon approached from the end of the hall, light from the next room streaming onto his back. That horrible grin bleeding black from its teeth was barely lit by what made it past him, clearest when the wall sparked as his shoulders nearly brushed into exposed wires with his ragged, unstoppable march.

Even without sight, Sammy felt his eye sockets clench like they had lids to close shut. His melting spine threw itself against the wall behind him as his lord embodied everything his prophet feared about him instead of revered.

And so, despite that spark of a past life revitalized, Sammy knew all he could do was pray.

"My lord!" he choked out that well-worn plea. He had always pleaded for him in time of need, just one way or another. "Ink demon!" He didn't even know what to ask for. What could he have, even? Francine was gone through the floor- evidently where he could not as he stamped his feet where she was surely _was_ and only found solid boards. Alice- he had hated her for decades and yet cared for her even longer- a long lost friend lost all over again, and for what?! A world falling apart in the clutches of a man that had known everything about him without sharing a single thing about himself.

…And yet he had shared all. The ink demon was always watching.

These things Sammy contemplated as somehow the shreds of meaning he had through his god were torn from his hands, left bleeding and empty. This god before him now, who had never given his seer the courtesy of even a single word, leaving him to find on his own all that he wanted…This being that Sammy could feel envelop him, dread and goosebumps like fingers clawing down his back, like poison in his lungs that made it hard to breath. A gasp, a gasp, and a gasp. Sammy raised his hands to his face, feeling his glasses skew with his desperate grasping- bouncing as his fists shook with each shallow bit of hyperventilation. He laid in wait, in the nightmare of a martyr, waiting for his deity- his cause- to surely kill him once more. It was then, wide-eyed and so, so afraid, that Sammy Lawrence finally asked himself something that had creeped upon him like the looming shadow of his master, step by step.

…Was his faith gone?

He fell to his knees, kneeling before a god that was there but that he didn't know if he wanted to believe in anymore

 _Was his faith gone?!_

The well was run dry, the everlasting flood of hope and dreams for something better, all dashed away as the one with promised came forward with none.

What else did he have left to do but rot away?

And it was like this, a man of ink so distraught he melted right onto the floor as he curled upon it and sobbed, that the creature he adored and despised stood over him and listened.

Sammy did not question why he paused.

* * *

A groan heaved itself out of Francine's mouth, sight fading in and out as she grit her teeth with the intense discomfort. She had felt relief, though; she was no longer falling.

But where was she?

The woman lifted her head, seeing floorboards beneath her, her own hands shaking as they tried to raise the rest of her, too. Her stare stayed upon them just a second longer- just long enough for her eyes to shoot open and for her breath to be stolen as something reminded her that this time falling down was not like the others.

 **Drip.**

Right in between her palms, splattering its darkness in tiny specs upon her skin. She let out a startled yelp, sitting up to see what was surely the most incredible thing this studio of wonders held in store for its visitors.

All around her, ink was falling down, down, down. Slinking from a black ceiling- a mass of liquid encircling her. She turned her chin up and followed the streak moving past, and she soon found there was a reason she hardly heard a plink of its hitting the floor.

 _There was no floor._

She was laid upon the smooth portion of a wooden foundation ripped apart, jagged at the edges. Despite her weight, it did not tilt with the flail that inevitably came with her scream at such a discovery. It was floating- baseless- amid nothing, and as she grappled the edge tight in terror, her hair framed her face and dangled down with absolutely nothing beyond below.

Just black. Like it was the ends of the earth.

And she was so afraid.

The woman put a hand to her heart, feeling it beat faster than she could ever imagine, and wondering if Joey had led here just to die, she began to hyperventilate just as Sammy was at that very same moment. Her head turned every which way, and as if they came to calm her, she saw flickers of light- inexplicable, fuzzed orange.

Her shoulders heaved still, but her focus returned as she finally had something to keep her in place. Unwilling to stand up only to fall off, she crawled to the edge of her small island to look closer.

It reflected back in her squinting eyes and seemed brighter and brighter as its presence amid the void brought her steady.

It bloomed, it bent, and it withered.

…

…

"…Right," she exhaled, a tremor in her voice. This wasn't for no reason. Nothing had _ever_ been for no reason- she knew that now. Every step- every detail fabricated like a story written as she walked into it- was entirely purposeful.

Even if he didn't know why.

And so with a gulp, Francine made herself stand up, watching the blankness around her and the ink swarming through it for what to do next.

She saw nothing more than her board and the candle, the latter who knows how far away.

There was only one thing left to do, and unlike every other time she had chosen to step where she didn't want to, in this vast realm of darkness…she finally felt like she was supposed to be here.

She glanced up as if who she addressed was up in heaven.

"Joey?" Said softly, because she didn't need to yell to be heard.

The woman with faith took in a breath and closed her eyes.

She lifted one foot and set for to put it past the wood beneath her.

…

One eye alone opened, twinkling as she saw a second board beneath it that wasn't there before.

She exhaled.

"I'm coming, Joey."

She clenched her fists and put her gaze back level with the flame that gave her hope.

"Just hang on and help me if you can."

* * *

The demon was there to help, or so it was fated to. Whether or not that was the actual fruition of his existence had, of course, been long, long debatable. What kind of loving god watches idly by as his people rot away? Smiles as they drag half-severed body parts behind them as the will to live left them melting apart? That only lifts his chin up to the melody of anguish screamed and prayed as his kind begged to him for mercy if only in true death?

A _jealous_ god. One that through a world of pain found something justifying. How much did Joey hate himself, and how much did Joey believe he needed to _suffer._

A perpetuation that dragged everyone down with him the more he heard their hearts and bodies alike ache. Even the wisest ones of all can be the most ignorant; the most empathetic can have the least care about other's feelings.

And what was the demon if not Joey's contradictions, the keeper of this tossing, turning purgatory?

And so the beast watched, smiled, and lifted his chin as his most beloved prophet was pathetic on the ground before him once again, completely and utterly sobbing as he lost grasp of all that gave this man hope.

…Again, that is.

Below the demon, Sammy was no different than before. No different the other times he was afraid, even from the very beginning. As how close they were came to be known, Sammy squirmed back, gasping shouts of the utmost fear.

Not unlike when Bendy first held him by the shoulders and blinded him till he was pacified.

No, this was not unfamiliar to the old, dark spirit as in either condescendence or heavenliness, he merely stood over he who trusted him most of all, once again the weeping willow giving his shade, his **drips** like the gentle, withering cascade of the tree to descend all around Sammy Lawrence and shelter him from evils he could not unsee.

A pitiful welp, he was, in the presence of someone so _big,_ so _glorious!_ No wonder he learned to abide in the demon; who else could have such power, such care, such prestige for those of his everlasting kingdom? Joey had always been saddened to hear Sammy sing such gospels of dismay; he would rather give him something to believe in.

Whether or not the demon had consciousness to agree was irrelevant, as he regardless simply did as fate untethered had designed either way.

So just as before, as the shepherd without a sheep knelt among a room of wolves and wept for what was missing, his god reached over and took away what caused his distress, as any being of benevolence should.

Knowledge was to leave Sammy like wind carrying leaves off the branches one by one as the ink demon knocked the glasses right off his face.

* * *

Like a trail in a land of sprites encased in hidden magic, Francine toddled one step at a time through the darkness to chase a will-o-the-wisp promising something beyond. Arms stretched out for balance, she at first looked down to make sure there would be something beneath her at every step, but eventually concluded that the answer would always- imperatively- be yes- she was safe.

…Safe as she could be, traversing over the nothingness at the world's end.

Might as well not make herself panic looking down at it.

She bent with her palms on her knees as the blur of distance finally left like a fog only when she drew especially close, it's flame flickering like all the others before. The candle was simply…there- like a streetlamp or a lantern inside an inn to let you know its safe to rest here. She blinked at it, having expected more, but upon looking up again saw more of the same having suddenly apparated while she had glanced away. The fires of the candles were numerous, their soft smolder emanating a weaving path to follow. Upon squinting past the quickening drips of ink from above, she could see _something_ at the end.

Not a single question in her mind to follow it, and so she did.

Despite feeling more and more certain of the pattern of wood keeping her upright, with each candle she began to feel worry on top of worry. The ink was, indeed, falling faster every time they caught her eye, and she was starting to see other things, too, as she neared whatever waited for the her up ahead. Pages, and inkwells, bits of cutouts- the demon's smile still gracing a visit even as it was ripped apart-…wait.

As one stream fell past the woman's shoulder, something plummeted beside it, its tip slathered with the murky liquid but still light enough- and light colored enough, like candlelight itself- to be readily noticed.

…A flower petal, just like the ones in Joey's vase.

It make her breath shake even more, somehow- so out of place, not anywhere else in this whole studio before- and it turned out to be rightfully so as she turned her head back forward to see she had finally reached the door at the end of this abyss, nothing to its left nor its right but surely something within beckoning for just her.

With dying brown vines with withered yellow leaves wrapped around it, Francine opened the last gate as Joey allowed the girl into his soul.

* * *

Sammy heard the _tink!_ of his spectacles hit the floor, mouth gaping and head crooked after the demon swiped so viciously at him. He heard the splatter of what was surely his own liquid flesh hit the surfaces around him, and the prophet felt numbness wash over the spirit inside him.

His mind, for the longest moment, was left blank.

…

…

…

Face vacant of any protection- of any way to cover up what he always hated about himself- he turned his chin up to the ink demon, the being that wished to grant him the bliss of faith without the wretchedness of a past life getting in the way

Four fingers reached up the side of his head, nothing crossing his temples to get in the way, to encase thoughts back into his mind.

His lip trembled, an exhaled gasp shaking with it in its release.

" _You…"_ the prophet could hardly speak, sockets trembling in his skull, too.

Those fingers balled into fists. Something was missing, and it left him hollow. It was the weakest, quietest utterance in his whole life.

His hands lowered, limp on his lap.

"You…" the man slowly began to comprehend, "You… _took them…!"_

Complete disbelief.

…But then suddenly the dents in his head narrowed, and it was not awe that was within his eyeless gaze but a deep, uncovered fury.

"Those are _MINE!"_

A last straw, the demon's attempt to sooth and control failed. Sammy shouted and leapt past his former saint to grab what was rightfully his. The demon's expression didn't waver, but his aura surely did.

Sammy Lawrence from then on would always remember who he was, what he wanted, and what he was waiting for, and no one had the right nor ability to control him for another second.

As the man dived for the broken glasses, they tangled only in his fingers for a second before he felt himself thrown violently away, a poster tearing Bendy and Boris in two behind his back. The man grimaced, hands clawing the surface behind him as he heard his lord's pained, hoarse breath get faster and faster- the drips more and more present- and maybe even the ground itself tilt back like the whole hall was being rattled in someone's hands.

This was when he knew it was the beginning of the end.

* * *

The door, despite existing, tried to fight against her touch, the things wrapped around it having to crack apart as she gripped the doorknob tight and shoved her weight to break it open.

"Come- ON-" Her grunt devolved into a shriek as it finally gave way, unprepared to catch herself from falling.

But what a good thing she still managed to.

Francine's arms flailed, gripping onto the edge of the door to hold herself to it as instead of another platform made for her, something else came forth instead.

 _Someone_ else.

It was like a storm in slow motion, in impossible directions in impossible ways. Boards of wood torn from their foundations swung in the air; candles had their flames sweep far, far further than such little wicks should reach- like whips of yellow, red, and orange that curved along with the invisible hurricane; books and ripped papers and so, so much of Bendy- his visage thrown about as toys, pictures, and in flickers of cartoon projections shooting across from their projections, somehow visible without a still flat surface.

And the plant stems on the door, dead and like straw, were still so very alive. Like dendrites of a cell, they crawled around the chaos in a gigantic sphere- encasing it. Keeping it separate, untouchable.

Both to contain and keep out. No wonder it didn't want her in.

Still did not.

Francine's feet tripped underneath her as her trance was broken, the thin, hollow straw strong enough to nearly shut it on her fingers. She yelped, managing to fumble back on the other side of the door's knob the desperately bring herself upright.

Beneath her fingers, she both saw and felt the vines shudder like they had a sense of touch, and she witnessed this tremor travel down and away. Her eyes followed, and she finally acknowledged him.

The sight of him made her eyes wide, brow curled and mouth gaping once more with a doleful gasp as she bore witness to a man that was never supposed to be found.

Joey stood upon nothing- he merely was left in the air, center of the massacre and focus of the disarray. He was so…pathetic in his great, great power; knees were pulled into his chest; one hand was wrapped around himself as if he was afraid he'd spill apart; another covered over his face.

She couldn't see his face as he curled up like a lost child, and she saw the deceased flowers wrap and grow around him, sprouting blooms already brown and thin with age over and over again as they grew so fragile they fell away to join the wind. Her eyes did not deceive her- they held a glow and like the Adlewood tree released its dark, toxic sap. The ink glittered in yellow radiance as the runny shadow slid onto the old father's skin and dyed his cream suit with more and more of his sins.

It was horrifying, but it confirmed her suspicions about the nature of his control.

Those stained petals drifted past her face, nearly indistinguishable from the pages that flew around, too.

"Joey?"

At first soft, quiet and said more so in shock than to be heard. His silence, though, created the latter.

"JOEY?!"

Nothing happened.

She realized, then, that he had taken her this far, but there's only so much he knew to do when they finally approached what hurt him most of all.

Her eyes glanced all around, at the remnants of things he loved like shattered memories thrown about in the distress of his own mind.

And at realizing this was what he left for her to use, she called for him one last time as the woman backstepped once before jumping right in.

* * *

Sammy was hit one more time as he made another blind reach for his glasses, hearing them skid down the hall. He skid after, but not by choice. As he hit the floor once again, the blow upon him seemed, too, to direct gravity; the other side of the room fell and he slid right along with it. Another grunt as he met its end, feeling other objects behind his back and by his sides. Panicked, he threw things aside as soon as he found they weren't what he wanted back, hearing the stomp of his god come closer and closer.

Why did he want them so badly to defy his lord?

But more importantly, why did his lord want to take what was not his?

Those glasses were…everything, in a way. They made him _human._ They triggered Sammy to realize he was _human._

No wonder he was still crying out at the idea that he whom he trusted in was trying to take that away.

The musician screamed as he was picked up and thrown by the arm, yet again tossed about like a ragdoll.

"Why?!" he managed, "WHY?!"

He dared to raise his head, his soma dripping onto the wall and to the floor to join the aura and body of his master.

"WHY CAN'T I HAVE THIS?! _WHY WON'T YOU LET ME HAVE THIS?!"_

The ink swallowed over the pile of things, the useless glasses appearing in his massive ungloved hand. Whether or not he was distracted as his eyeless gaze fell upon him was uncertain, but it gave Sammy enough time to pick himself back up.

No, having not seen the demon do this, it was nothing but his own fury at the leviathan's silence and cruelty that made Sammy throw himself at his lord, ready to fight for what he had left.

* * *

Francine cried out, too, as there is nothing else one can do with the sensation of throwing oneself off the cliff, to feel your stomach flip over and over with the freefall and the sensation of wind striking past your hair and right between your ears.

For a split second, she began to have an idea that this was a terrible, terrible mistake. Her jump wasn't nearly as far as intended- if any forethought went into such a stupid act at all- and her weight began to be redistributed, her body tilting as time passed in the tumble. But then, she grimaced; something tore into her stomach as they crossed paths, the sound of her shirt ripping clear as day as a sting came from the same place.

But every moment of pain is an opportunity, perhaps, and so with another shout she grappled what hurt her and held on for dear life.

Francine had never, ever, had so much strength in her weak body as she managed to crawl onto the piece of driftwood floating in space, a second of refuge in a hurricane. Even her eyelids trembled with the adrenaline as she directed her look down. She couldn't see past her own chest to wherever the wound was, but perhaps that was a good thing- meant it wasn't that big. Even though it was in a similar spot, it wasn't nearly as bad as the pain in her abdomen when Sammy found her for the first time.

Her locks blew into her eyes with the gust of this storm, but she could still see past them a way to that old man.

She reached her arm forward and clung to the next thing that came by, dragging herself closer and closer as many times as need be.

* * *

 _Of course he was no match for the ink demon._

-First, merely a shove away, like Sammy was a child trying to fight an adult keeping away a dangerous thing he mistook for toy-

 _But that wasn't the point, was it?_

-Then, as Sammy merely came forward again, his savior swiped him aside entirely, that giant white glove more than enough to move the man like a fly. He picked himself right back up-

 _It wasn't a fight to win. It just wasn't. What the demon had…was simply his._

-Instead of going for the beast again, Lawrence tried to judge by sound alone in a swarm of noise and carnage and things always moving where the ink demon's black hand could be. He charged in, and he missed, barreling past instead, leaving himself vulnerable for the monster to take him by the shoulder and toss him at his feet. The ink in Sammy's back conjoined with the pool made by his lord, puddles whispering in his ears-

 _The demon took what was not his._

-Sammy clung to the hand holding him down by its wrist, gritting his teeth. He reached up for his glasses again, but nothing met his touch-

 _Joey took everything that did not belong to him in the first place- everything. Sammy finally wanted something back._

* * *

Francine was finally close enough she could almost touch him, but the object she clung onto was fast on its way away. With one last yelp, she hoisted herself over to Joey himself- reaching out without knowing if he'd drag him down too- and the sensation that came with that was nothing but extraordinary.

All the woman had to do was hold his shoulders, and the weightlessness about him…came about her.

She felt the bottom of her shirt lift up the tiniest bit, showing the blood that had begun to stain the dull blue cloth. Her feet needed no support, and her legs kicked slowly like they waded through water. She couldn't see it, but the slight, golden aura about him in that second outlined her too, her strands of hair going from being whipped about to being gently tugged up and down, much like his locks from underneath his hat.

Another thing unnoticed is that the blooms that choked from his head to his shoes seemed to drift more towards hers, too.

"Joey!" His name, dumbly said one more time as she waited for him to react. But nothing came. His hand was on his face, and there it remained. He would not look back.

"Hey, hey HEY-"

She gripped tighter, nearly on the verge of tears. No. No, he _had_ to be able to hear her, he HAD to! After all this-!

Just as he was about to give up, she tilted her head past the shadow of his top hat's brim, and through his hiding fingers she should see trembling, glowing eyes.

 _They were so afraid._

She shook him in her hold, her own illuminated gaze fixated on his until Joey chose to return it.

And slowly, slowly…they did. Honey irises glinting with a power beyond his own met hers; they were so wide, so hardly there with her as everything was falling apart.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, more horrified than ever before. Her heart sunk again as he again looked down into the darkness below, the ink streaming slowly from the weeds caressing around his hand. "After everything I've done…nothing. I could do nothing."

Mr. Drew blinked, some of the liquid on his forehead tricking down.

"All these years…and I could never do a _single_ good thing after all…!"

His eyes closed.

"I was wrong. So very, very wrong. But you already know that."

Eyes half-lidded, staring at nothing.

"I was never, never faultless at all. I've never done anything right. _I've never-"_

" _JOEY!"_

Eyes wide open, looking at her.

Her expression, in spite of a fear matched between them, was stern. Francine furrowed her brow and glared; none of that was going to help them. Drew had literal decades to roll around in his own misery- heaven help her if she let him whine a another, single fucking moment, God almighty.

She had lost too damn much and had to suck it all up for him to pity himself a second more.

His hand fell from off his face, returning to his legs to hold himself. He was really, truly, childish, and they couldn't afford him to be.

The phone in her pocket may have been weightless, but what was inside was far too heavy to leave behind.

She jerked him one more time by the shoulders, as if it would wake him up. The woman shook her head side to side before beginning to not plea…but to convince.

"Listen," she began again, "…You can let us _GO!"_

And the old man whose winkles on his face came from laughter long ago rather than age had them carve even deeper with a frown that reached glittering eyes. He shook his head right back, the kind of look when someone tries to convince their daughter someone just died and they won't be coming back.

"I can't…!" he squeaked. All that confidence, all that grandiosity and sureness… _gone._ He was a shell, and his contents were breaking open and spreading all around her and out of reach. "I've _tried,_ dear, I could never-"

Francine allowed him to touch her face one more time, a lingering, barely touching caress of the cheek that did not last.

"…I've hurt you," Joey admitted, maybe for the first time with sincerity, "I've hurt everyone. _So many people, Frankie-!"_ Another hopeless, hollow shake of the end, vines wrapping around him more and tighter- one coming over Francine's right hand. "I can't save them _._ I never could. I tried- and it all only became… _worse."_

She saw both his hands gradually let go of himself to feebly come to her own fingers, begging for something without knowing what.

" _I can't let anyone go."_

And this… _this_ was why Francine was here, and this is why Joey had allowed her to find him. Like all the times before, he contradicted himself; he both fought for her and against her presence.

Now she knew why.

"…Joey."

She pulled her hand out of his grasp to instead cup his own cheek.

" _You already have."_

The disbelief in his expression had no words, and her palm felt his jaw drop into it.

"No-" Mr. Drew retained a grip of his version of reality, "No, no, dear- please- _please_ don't say that…!" Terror tinged his voice, as he knew only bad things came from hearing such distressing things. "I haven't- I _can't-_ Frankie, darling, _please_ believe me-!"

But his emotions didn't sway her; her gaze stayed firm and she kept herself still.

"You can't control what you want, can you?"

Such a simple statement. Secret upon secret, this was the last thing he didn't want anyone to know.

It was true.

"No," he returned with hardly a sound, "Never. This studio…reacts to me. It does not obey."

His eyes begged for mercy as he confessed his worst sin.

"I can't stop myself from hurting everyone."

Tears welled up, absorbing the golden fade about them, twinkling like stars as she stroked her thumb and broke them apart to fall across his face and beneath stained, shining glasses.

And then she told him a secret she realized too.

"But you can!"

And something intended for hope only made him more terrified.

"No, NO! Frankie, _STOP-"_

"You HAVE! Joey- Joey _LISTEN!"_ Francine tilted his face back towards her, having tried to look away as his only means of escape. Both hands cupped his face now, making the ancient soul look her in the face. She repeated what had to be true again, calmer and certain it was key to their deliverance:

"You let Henry go."

And everything around them- every splinter, thread, and bead of ink- it all froze in place at the drop of a pin. His hands came again to hold her wrists, and he took an eternity to swallow what she had dared to utter.

"… _Why would you ever say something like that?"_

* * *

The room tipped upside down, he could tell. The sensation of being turned around was known to all that were in the puddles, twisted together like they were stirred in a cauldron. Ink sloshed around him, like a ship at sea filling with the waves that are bringing it down. He groaned, but the nightmare of a spinning tempest in a locked room- electricity sparking behind his shoulders from bare wires- was nothing compared to the force coming after him.

He skidded on the floor as his lord tried to pin him to it.

But Sammy- by heaven's grace- felt the ink demon's grip weaken, and he rolled to his side, releasing himself from whatever wrath was coming his way. Francine…whatever she was doing-

The thought was broken as he began heading to the other side of the hall again, identified because he could hear sparks from the metalworks around him that his dear friend mentioned before. Instinctively- or perhaps catching the sound of a sharply raised fist- the man ducked, still grazed by the demon's hit but not facing its full brunt. He took the opportunity to return it with a punch of his own, feeling knuckles land somewhere on the behemoth before he was tossed back yet another time.

The director managed to skid to a halt instead of simply hit a wall again, and as he gasped for breath, he could hear the tingle of electricity right behind his back.

The altar for Joey's son wasn't too far away.

* * *

"Because it's true!" Francine insisted, "Listen- it's the only thing that makes sense! If Henry isn't here- I mean, _I_ haven't seen him- then where the hell is he?!"

Mr. Drew stayed silent at the mention of his son. He closed his eyes once again.

"The puddles," he admitted softly, knowing how they were the most wretched place of all, "There's nowhere else."

"Joey?"

Nothing. She continued.

"Have you ever…-" _Delicately. Be careful._ "-…Tried to find him?"

Francine's apprehension…was entirely justified.

" _OF COURSE NOT!"_ he snapped much louder than before, Francine gasping at the anger in his eyes. Just like that, the whirlwind that stood still came back with strength anew, starting to throw things around once again, a match for his outrage at such an accursed accusation- an afront to everything he worked for. "Why would I, after all I've _DONE?!_ Why would I do that to him?! _Why would my son want to see me?!"_

The woman felt her heart race and Joey tense in her hands. She shouldn't have been so surprised he didn't want to see the truth. All she could offer was another question, hope that it was enough:

"…Have you ever thought to ask?"

And it was almost like this bit back and him, his head jerking up at these words and the ire in his eyes burning right her way.

…Doubt. It was flickering in his gaze, too, right alongside. And so she asked another thing of him, even as she sat precariously in the eye of the storm with brutality unlike any other.

"Just… _try,"_ she proposed, trying to hide the desperation just below the surface. "Please-" And then, what she prayed would convince him: "I- I- want to know. Please."

His teeth were still grit, his expression was still flabbergasted at the abominable idea…but the doubt grew…and grew…and grew, until his eyes twitched now with a more tender confusion instead of rage.

But of course. She had always been able to get his guard down.

…

Joey Drew sighed and squeezed Francine's hands as he closed his eyes to look for what was left of dear Henry, if only to convince her that he was gone and nothing more could be done. The girl that so painfully- wonderfully- reminded the father of his son was left to watch and wait, the only indication of his efforts found upon his face.

And what a journey it took her on.

He eventually calmed, expression flat as he focused only on the pursuit. Then, he too became more...invested; Joey was hardly looking before- ready to flee the moment he caught the slightest sign of him- the son he was afraid to see after all he did...like everyone else, or even worse; he wanted to hide from the one he loved the very, very most. Like...walking and walking until you expect the earth to end- But...but...-

The frown and curled brow told Francine a lot more than words could, but she still let him search until satisfaction- or lack thereof- all the same so he could speak.

"… _Where…-?"_

His irises shined once again, horror of another kind entirely within them; so different, it is, the assurance of something awful than the lack of that promise can be.

"Mr. Drew, listen." Francine pulled him closer, tilting her head with a similar sort of amazement. "I…I don't know where your son is. I don't know why-… _why_ you said he- he died. Why you said you saw him die."

She leaned in so very close.

"But he _can't_ have died here," she murmured.

His grasp on her weakened as the world swung around, the best news- a revelation! Salvation!- still shredding through him like the sharpest knives.

" _You let him go."_

And then he let go entirely, all that was left to connect them being her touch alone. He looked ahead, but who knew what on earth he could be seeing. But the woman didn't waste time bringing him back to why she was here.

"Joey… _you CAN let us all go."_

His limp hands were met as she moved hers off his cheeks to hold them. How the hell how Joey could let them go wasn't visible to her…but it was _possible._

He _could._

She knew he could, and now…

So did he.

The fragile, frail plants continued to stretch and fade over and over again around them and from him, a waltz of life and death much like the existence of those he killed. The fires of the candled wrapped around their sphere like the trails of comets- of clouds lit by the evening sky-…no one had ever seen the sky in years. Like shattered glass, what was left of his existence was painted around them in moving color, impatient for something to change.

…His grimace stretched, and as the old man began to cry, Francine pulled him into her embrace and held Joey Drew as close as she could, having nothing else to offer but prayers that he would set them free.

"Please," she asked of him.

Sammy stood ready for something he could finally do to save himself.

" _Please."_

The demon leapt to his death.

" _Please, I want to see my family again."_

And limp in his hold, at first nothing happened. But little by little, he began to hold her back, and then rest his head into her shoulder, and then gripped even tighter. The world did just the same. Past his red hair, Francine could see those jagged boards swing like knives, and she saw the flowers around them- around her, growing alive and trying to take her along with him- bloom, bend, and wither over and over faster and faster, their petals releasing and filling the air like smoke. She heard a rumble and the ink flew more like rain than ever before, sharp against her skin.

It got so violent she just closed her eyes and waited for some sort of end to come.

And at the same time, with the wolf's room quaking all around him, Sammy jumped to the side just as the demon came in for the final blow.

He could hear the electricity shoot through his god from the torn wires, the bare wounds of a universe aching inside out as it conflicted with the creature of pain and control that it was supposed to contain.

Joey was dead.

He was the ink demon.

He was even God.

But for the first time, he saw he always had a choice.


	87. The Beginning

**Author's Notes:**

I cried a few times writing this, so here's some Emotions because I'm feeling a lot.

The support from you guys has been completely and utterly impossible. All the kudos, art, comments, fucking hell man I even got essay analysis about it. It means...SO SO much to me. My life is sincerely *different* because of this- because of YOU. This story has been utterly cathartic; it was started as a self insert because I wanted to validate my enjoyment for a specific character and to allow myself to daydream what it'd be like to meet him- to, furthermore, convince my kid self that did this very thing to cope with my problems that it's okay to like characters, and that I don't have to romanticize abuse and toxicity. I- sincerely- wrote this at first for me and about me, and then i realized I was willing and wanting to share this part of myself with others and be proud of the fact I picked up writing again for the first time in seven years.

And for then you guys came in, and you supported me and said the dang nicest things I've ever heard.

So this chapter is dedicated to us both. I made a story with the ending I wanted, and I got to share it with people willing to hear it.

Thank you, especially, to my friends, and especially Ace. You beta read this, listened to my ideas and made this story what it is, and you were the first person to support and believe in me in doing this. You're the best and I love you so much. Your direction was irreplacable, and this wouldn't be the story I wanted if not for you and your guidance.

This story would not exist today if it were not for my friends. You are all so loving and supportive, and I want you to know you made my life better. I'm glad I could give you at least this in return. I love you.

I do not believe this to be the end. I plan on indulging more writing about this AU in the future. A new beginning, you may say. About what happens after, probably.

But *this* story...is done.

(OH, and as a heads up, **if you haven't read What's Not Yours yet, you should definitely do it before reading this chapter.** )

* * *

 **87- The Beginning**

" _O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?"_ – 1 Corinthians 15:55

* * *

 _And one petal fell._

 _Then another._

 _And another._

Their gentle, papery colors were tinged by warm hues their past home did not know. The fires of candlelight can only spread so far into the heavens. It was the colors of the sun itself now, painting richness only seen before with the splashes of life people brought into the studio that latched upon their backs and in their hands.

The life it sucked grey was let go, and everything lost was set free.

A broken pair of glasses, twisted and cracked, rested in wait. Fingers reached to them in new light, new texture, and tugged _once…- twice…- thrice…-_ until they were gently pulled out of sight and into its palm.

* * *

Francine was in a sacred place.

The woman laid down once more, on her side as a breeze played with her hair after missing its touch for far too long. Her blue shirt was unstained, the maroon jacket tied around her waist untarnished, and her backpack was placed around her shoulders without a spot left on its pins and pink design.

Both ink and bloodshed disappeared.

She squeezed her hand with a groan into whatever was underneath it, the feeling not yet familiar as she felt things fall between her fingers, delicate and compliant with a bizarre, waxy texture. The bag was weighted and shifted with the movement, and something tall and light tickled the woman's nose as she began to pick herself up-

Lost breath as she realized she was alone. He's gone, _he's gone-!_

…Joey may have been gone- ripped from her arms by the universe- but as Francine rose from the flowers like it was all a dream, there was so much more waiting ahead that there was no way she could hold it all at once, even with empty hands.

With daisies and dandelions and violets at her heels, Francine gaped just a moment before she sprinted to the end of the hill where she was gently set down. Gasping for breath, she only lost it all over again as the horizon came forth and allowed her to see what was truly the promised land.

Francine was silhouetted by the rising dawn as the studio was gone- simply gone- and the vastness before her was so full and vibrant that maybe it didn't even exist until JDS died and let wildflowers grow over its grave.

And it was like buds in spring that people below in the fields surrounded by running water and stretching trees rose up from the earth, alive again.

 _Ink and bloodshed…disappeared._

Just as they were before Mr. Drew took them as his own, she saw not a single black speck upon these people made of flesh- left with their clothes, hair, and all else just like before the ink ate them away.

Some were on their knees, staring at their hands in utter silence, looking at the scars on their skin and asking themselves if those were there before.

Others leapt their feet and were screaming up at sunrise and its dyed clouds, feeling real once again with tears streaming down their face as they saw God and walked through hell to tell about it.

And others still had opened their eyes and thrown themselves in embrace at the first person they could see, and no one denied any other.

No one saw Francine as she saw them, observing their humanity until it carved unknown names into her bones. Button-up shirts, and poodle skirts, and baseball caps, and high-waisted jeans; many, many people from times past, both long, long ago and hardly before her at all. They all came to die- and they did. So they did.

And perhaps so did she.

…

But.

Here they all were, filled past the brim with life like a pitcher poured passion in their veins even as they overflowed and spilled into the world everything that couldn't stay inside.

And numb with a hundred lifetimes spun three times over, all she could do was make it to the bottom of her perch to be level with them, petals stuck in her hair and the masses of lost souls wailing and sobbing at being alive once again. A quivering hand rising to her mouth, she was too overwhelmed even to cry, but she made herself look because it was what they all were owed- to be seen as they once were, the night sky turning pink and yellow and blue for the coming day, watercolors filtering over the green earth and upon what was taken- returned to it again.

Something caught her eye. A butterfly, much disrupted by the arrivals, made its leave in fluster and fluttered past Francine's nose. She watched it blink in and out with each delicate flap as it weaved ahead, and Francine lost sight of the creature, leaving her to stare at two in particular out of the multitudes. Like in a trance, she was drawn forward, unnoticed among the many as they discovered themselves once more.

She was just one of them, too, after all.

There was a woman with auburn hair and bright, glossy eyes. She mouthed someone's name as she touched his cheek. Fair, young skin of a hand reached for the dark and old of a liverspotted face. Francine saw how the hand hovered, its fingers twitching in place as they were afraid to touch- or were waiting until something told them they could. The woman left her lips parted, her profile looking up at the one she waited upon. He returned the look with one different- wide eyed but with nothing but neutrality.

Francine saw she was afraid he didn't remember, and just as she resigned to begin pulling her fingers and pulling away-

…The observer felt her heart jump as the gentleman took the girl's hand tight into his, kissing its knuckles before pressing it into his face. She said his name again in a shout as she threw the rest of herself at him in the tightest hug human muscles could muster, fully returned. One father figure let her down, but this one never would.

Francine stood there, holding her hands up near her chest, tender and unsure if she should watch, before lurching forward with a yelp. Someone in the crowd accidentally- or perhaps even purposefully as they were overjoyed- shoved her from behind and left her to tumble. She felt herself stumble and closed her eyes in case she landed on her face-

A soft, "oof!" came close to her ears with a blunt impact, and she felt something solid keeping her upright instead.

Francine opened her eyes to find herself caught in the arms of this person, slightly shorter than her with curls at the ends of her hair. Her lips were painted red, parted once again like she wanted to speak but didn't know what to say, and she was simply wide eyed and staring at the person she rescued like she was a ghost.

A smile inched awkwardly across Francine's face. The other girl must be in shock from all this, just like her. She still felt her heart racing, glance flickering to the black man watching with much the same look and the then back to the white woman with her face so close. She didn't like to stare, but she couldn't help it- noticing half the woman's face looked…well, _rough._ Injured, maybe burnt sometime before all this.

…She was super pretty.

"…H."

Another twitch of a grin as Francine remained tense in her grip. A hand went to her face, and she noticed that this person's nails were painted too.

"…Hey."

…

Wait.

She looked familiar-

Whatever was on Francine's mind left with the wind as the girl did what she had begun to dream to do only a short time ago. With her first moment of being who she really was, Susie Campbell caressed her friend's face with her own hands, stars still barely in the sky as sunlight broke in rays, and a seraph finally kissed her beloved cherub.

If she had lost her breath- if she had felt her heart jump out of her chest before- it was nothing like this.

Francine's eyes kept wide and she felt goosebumps raise one by one on and hair raise at the back of her neck, but at the other woman's touch- soothing…adoring… _longing-_ she finally felt herself relax and she kissed her right back, inexperienced but grateful and oh so very on fire with the daylight kissing warm onto their skin right alongside.

Someone played with the other's hair on a whim and made them giggle, leading the other girl nothing to do but giggle, too, into her mouth. Soon, both of them were laughing at the top of their lungs, holding each other's shoulder's and pressing foreheads into each other as they snuck in more pecks all over their faces, bubbling over with everything the fear of death doesn't allow you pay mind to.

 _No more._

Susie opened an arm in welcome for another and Norman Polk abided, running into the two with a big, big grin and holding them tight in the embrace of a grandfather.

The loudness of the three was contagious, or at least the world seemed louder as they cheered with joy too.

 _They were alive._

And Francine screamed along with the rest of them until she felt like her soul was going to hop out of her chest.

But it was some time into this moment, being rocked back and forth in Norman- Susie called her Norman- so… Damn! _That_ was _Norman!-_ and with a woman that before that refused to so much as shed a tear crying into her chest…

…That was when Francine raised her head at the bluing sky and felt her smile fade.

Wordlessly, she delicately pushed herself out, head turning every which way, a hand to her heart and worry in her eyes.

Susie could hardly say the first syllable of her name before the sheep ran off to find her shepherd.

Elbows gently pushed past the others around Francine as she peeked over every shoulder, searching every face. Giving a concerned grimace to the projectionist, Susie grabbed him by the hand and they followed.

Susie wasn't sure if she wanted to see Sammy again, but that wasn't as important as not leaving the woman she loved alone yet again.

" _Sammy?!"_

Francine contorted her face into ten different frowns as she called for him and got nothing back. The noise around her wasn't helping, either. With the other two just a few steps away, she dashed towards another corner of the dip in the valley and skid to a halt, rising to the tips of her toes and humming with dismay.

It was here that the crowd was finally thin, where those that were aware enough to want solitude took their friends or themselves alone and sat in sunset-colored poppies to think.

Brow furrowed, she glanced more distantly and saw one person farthest ahead, someone at the lead of the congregation as they sang hymns of their heaven, mumbled recognitions of mercy without knowing what was next.

She saw a man with brown skin, overalls, and a tuft of hair towards the front of his head put broken glances on his face and turn towards Francine with his chin up to the sky.

"Francine?"

She saw dull eyes widen with his voice, and so she screamed his name again and ran all the rest of the way. Francine didn't stop even when she got to him; Sammy Lawrence lost his breath and grunted sharply with the impact as he was tackled but not allowed to fall down, she gripping him tight and then him doing the same for her, leaning back and forth with the momentum as they worked to keep each other balanced. His hold at first was out of necessity, but as she repeated the name that truly, truly belonged to him, he wrapped her tight and listened.

He didn't know what else to do, being given everything he prayed for all these years with the death of his god. But love requires a sacrifice, doesn't it? That's one way to put it.

He didn't want to think about that right now anyway.

And so with birds tweeting and blooms swaying with the spring morning, they and Francine's friends watched as Sammy tilted his head down into her hair, rocking back and forth, her eyes clenched shut and his softly looking past her and into the everything surrounding them.

But it could have never been long before she wanted to see the person that had walked with her this whole time. The music director felt her pull back and gasped, but she kept her hands on his forearms and squeezed in assurance.

 _He was so young._

She reached a hand up and held his face, seeing his lips quiver. She gave him a grin, but still, he did not change. She tried again, and added:

"It's okay!"

What was okay in particular, she had no idea, but it didn't matter. It was all okay now, regardless.

And that was enough, finally making Sammy smile back, and in turn it made her beam.

" _You have such a nice smile…!"_ A giddy exclamation, her voice on the fringe of sobbing and crying. Instead, she bounced up and down in place and bit her bottom lip as it began to grimace with threatening tears. Thankfully, Sammy seemed to understand, and he just smiled wider.

Then, the man chuckled. Somehow, his voice was both the same and…different. No telling if it was an imagined difference, one from the moment, or one that would stay with him forever. It helped her return to a real, unrestrained smile, too.

"Good to hear."

And again, something about that…Something about how he said it…It made Francine's expression drop.

She became silent, the sounds of nature filling the quiet as the woman studied the man's face.

It was, indeed, human. She stroked his cheek, feeling his skin- _skin!-_ beneath her fingertips. His lips pulled back further, nervously showing a bit more teeth. Her second hand released from him- making his expression flicker and brow furrow in wait-…and it did not change even as it hovered near his other eye.

Sammy's eyes weren't dark like they were in the photo, but light and rather grey.

Susie observed this from a distance, half of her face disfigured even though it wasn't before the ink. Others around them now, too, often had big scars or even a missing body part, and it was hard to ignore.

Francine put together what everyone else already knew; she found it rude to ask the now obvious, and so instead she did the least she could do.

She described his face, one inch at a time. It was wonderful, but the best thing of all was to be free from the ink and feel the wind comb his hair another time.

* * *

It was a good, long time before she looked up, up to the sky. The clouds were puffy and perfect like she remembered they could be. She blinked. One seemed to move faster than the others, a spot of white among the bright backdrop that dashed away.

As Susie and Norman finally approached, Francine looked on a moment with a soft smile as they and Sammy had their moment, backstepping…backstepping…-

She had hoped they didn't notice her running off, but they would.

The wanderer climbed up the hill's path, and for the first time it was evident to her that this place wasn't untouched by humanity after all. No, as her hand grazed past the old wood that helped her find her way forward, she saw it had been here for a long time, washed over and over again by rain and sunk into the ground- like the railing had once been much taller but mother nature was gradually taking it back.

The horizon came forward once more and her eyes widened with more there in wait.

And just as she came, a yelp rang out from something scared, and it scampered out of sight. It was just a second of pause before she gave solemn chase, half-running the rest of the way up with her lips pursed with concern.

The knoll leveled out, leaving her in tall grasses with morning glories and hollyhocks and more and more she couldn't name. They and the moss crawled up a stump shaped like it was the throne for a fairy king, her ankle brushing its overgrowth and uncovering a name carved into the wood without her notice, even as morning drew dripped where she could feel its touch.

A cottage was up ahead, something like it was out of a storybook as she waded through the weeds and gawked at a rooftop filled with moss and vines that curled into each and every nook in the brick walls. The windows were unbroken, but almost looked it from all the spiders that wove their webs.

She came to the door and it creaked open, and she saw someone inside the place that was once his home, curled up in the corner and shaking, trying his best to be as small as can be in a big, big world. Francine glanced around as his soft whimpers filled the tiny building, seeing old, dusty cooking spoons and toys and hand-drawn pictures that a proud mother kept even once her darling child grew up.

Sammy, Susie, and Norman didn't know what to feel as they arrived just to see Francine on her knees by Joey's side, holding him as he cried once again, light streaming from the open door as he hid in the shadows. The ink was not washed off his clothes, and there was a scar on his left palm.


	88. Epilogue

**Author's Notes:** This is the last chapter. However, while this fic is ending, but I think the entire AU is not. I have some ideas about what "post-Hymns" is like, and I want to explore that, I think, along with some other stuff in the series that's not stictly canon. So keep an eye open for that sometime!

Additionally, art for Hymns will still be organized with the tags I've been using on Tumblr thus far, including new art, and links to new art will be added as I can whenever I make new posts on the AO3. If you're interested in keeping up with fanart I get, looking directly on Tumblr is the best bet, especially since I can't add links directly on . Again, my tumblr account is Pipesflowforeverandever and you can go to that blog and search "hymns art" to see all the fanart for this series.

This is the chapter that made me cry the most, by far.

The song in this chapter is "Here for You" by Good Co, and **I highly recommend you find the drabble Rose Tea and read it if you haven't yet.**

* * *

 **88- Epilogue**

...

* * *

What a wonderful day.

In the living room, the sun shines bright. Rays stream past baby blue curtains, and the nursing home's resident kitten is curled up on the daybed. She flicks her tail almost in tune to the music as the song finishes. The half dozen people in the room sleepily applaud, claps like soft, dripping rain- polite and grateful, even if tired from it being the perfect time to fall asleep like the little cat already has.

The piano player flexes their fingers for one last song before they retire, its chords soft and slow, like looking at yourself for the first time through glass so ancient it's turned yellow; another filter, another time, both long ago and very, very close. The musician parts their lips and glides five fingers over black and white keys as they bid adieu.

 _I don't know just what to do…_

 _When all I do is run._

 _It's getting to be…so hard for me…_

 _To carry on._

…He catches a glance as he walks by the open room's entry, seeing the flowers in a jug upon the piano and the ones outside as people in wheelchairs sit and enjoy the fresh air. He hopes, with time, so may he.

Henry died surrounded by loved ones, leaving behind a darling husband named Marvin and a beautiful daughter named Linda. That's what the old obituary says.

He has been dead for quite some time.

A man with red hair eventually has soft shadow fall upon his face- still a shade darker than the rest, but so much brighter than the darkness that used to shroud him. He looks better in it.

He looks different.

The music- the twirling sound of notes like you can hear a couple's slow ballroom dance- fades to the back of his ears as honey eyes blink softly and rosy cheeks turn away, dust motes like glitter in their slow descent to the earth-toned carpet as they continue to glide where he was watching.

And back and forth, one step at a time, the man feels light in the shape of windows fall over him with walls' shadows in between as he lingers down the hall with a rose in his hand.

 _I go out most every night…_

 _But I only reach the door._

…This one. His orange hairline shines at a different angle as he tilts his forehead up to look. His lips pull back and he bites the inside of his mouth.

 _I kid myself…to think…_

 _I could do more._

But someone promised him he can do more, and so he grips the doorway and peeks in, slow and wide-eyed.

The piano in the background picks up flight like a butterfly stuck atop an indoor vase, stringing in and out of wine glasses, table lamps, and couch pillows as it either tries to find the window or delays the end on purpose.

There's a silhouette inside, someone in a rocking chair looking outside at the birdfeeder outside their window. The fact that he sees her again is suddenly so, so real, and the fog lifts with a dose of reality like a shock to the heart; a hand comes to his face and he releases a soft gasp-

He thinks to leave after all, but she's already turned her head to see who has come to visit.

An Asian woman with hair woven from clouds adjusts to give a glance. She's under a quilt knit yellow, pink, blue, green; and a face far more wrinkled with laughter and age than his becomes even more clear as she gives him a smile.

The heart in the man stops beating, and so Linda uses the time to look him up and down, evaluative. Who knows if she knows, too- how much smaller he seems than the last time they met, how a sweater and black pants instead of a white suit rounds out his shoulders- how tennis shoes instead of heels and a bare head instead of a top hat is so tiny…so much more meek and less grand than the character he was before.

She looks at him, and she decides.

"…You seem familiar."

 _In the mirror, I can see myself…_

 _But it's someone I don't know._

…A lifetime flickers over his eyes, all the times he played over and over and over in his head; he's used them to pity himself. It's different seeing what you thought was gone for good.

And so anxiously, he huffs barely a chuckle, a nervous drop of his eyes all over the room not searching for what to say, but rather searching for the soul that's left his body.

Inevitably, they fall back upon her. His beloved granddaughter.

She is here. She is alive.

 _And every time…I close my eyes…_

 _Back to yours._

And suddenly his smile firmed, just a little, just enough.

"Yes, dear," finally arrives a proper greeting, "My name is-…Joey." One more shift in his eyes, like flames of a candle in this soft shade of a room with no light but from outside.

His smile turns up more for a second with a slight exhale, hiding a grimace with a grin of amazement as true as the hurt he feels to say this.

"I knew you when you were just a baby."

And what can she say to that?

Nothing. It's so ridiculous. She's so old, and he's so young! And so Joey sees her wrinkles go even deeper as she belts a laugh.

It's such a strong, healthy laugh.

 _Since you've gone I've been so low…_

 _Don't know what else I can do._

…In a trance, Mr. Drew allows himself closer, and its almost like some of his black magic charm is back.

"Well, not right from birth," he corrects, "But I _did_ know your father." As if he's admitting he never knew her at all.

The old woman continues to rock, the chair squeaking softly back and forth with baby birds in their nest singing harmony. Amused, as the truly strange stranger knowing her father doesn't make much sense either with as young as he looks- 40? 50? Can't be a day over 50-…she plays along.

"Which one?"

Oh, that voice is _lovely._ The man's brow curls and he fiddles with his hands, melting on the spot at how that sound washes over and through him. Another short chuckle that can barely hide tears wanting to come, and his head dips down before he has he strength to lift it back up. Behind clean glasses are eyes nearly pinched shut with emotion, and underneath are lips he can feel quiver, but he still manages just fine.

" _Both,"_ he answers with a nod, "But I knew one before the other." A pause, as Joey absorbs her perfect face, her beautiful expressions. "I suppose you…always felt like Henry _was_ your father, didn't you?"

Some cotton white hairs brush over her eyes as Linda tilts her head. "I never doubted it for a second, and never understood anyone who did. Blood doesn't make family." And somehow after already facing him, she seems to face him even more directly. _"Don't you agree?"_

The woman with a full life can't know how much that question means to him.

"…Yes," he whispers, leaning in closer to his north star. The glassiness over his eyes glimmers as he does. "I do."

Not every day Linda has someone that understands. It makes her giggle, rough in the back of her throat. "More people need to get that into their thick skulls!"

"Yes," he answers reverently, setting a knee next to her rocker to look at the robins and maple leaves too, "They do."

And although she's never known him- and how odd it is he seems to know her- she lets him stay. A young woman comes into the doorway, leaning in and watching. Francine's clothes are new, too, and she gently holds a little boy with brown hair and skin as he sucks his thumb and watches the second reunion.

 _I'll spend…my day…_

…Joey Drew stares out the window, just as his ray of sunshine is. She's in a yellow dress, and it takes everything in him to keep from crying until he looks back out at the trees that go on past his sight and the sun beaming on a man who believed no one would ever see it again. He twirls the rose he brought in his hand, gently smoothing over the shape of the thorns.

 _Waiting here…_

…Francine hugs Gabby just a little bit tighter.

 _For you._

…Back in the living room of the nursing home, the pianist plays one note, two notes, three. The sound lingers, and they hold their fingers there, feeling the vibration in their fingertips, and they press one last time before slowly pulling away.

Just as he was a child, blinked, and became an old man, so he had blinked and little Linda went from the smallest baby to the brightest old woman.

The song is done.

"Would you like me to get you some tea, dear?"

"…I'd like nothing more."

* * *

A hand places itself on another, the sound of running water drumming now the piano is gone and the birdsong is replaced by crickets. As Francine looks up into the stars, Sammy tilts his head down, releasing a soft sigh as each trickle of the brook echoes right into his heart. He holds her hand back, twitching his eyes to her in recognition that it's okay; with a new body and a world of new sensations, it's so easy to become overwhelmed, and so a signal from one to the other is appropriate about where different boundaries lie.

She squeezes it back, glancing down at her thumb as she strokes his knuckles. He seems…happy. And she's happy in return. There's a lot ahead of them, and sometimes its suffocating, and so the fact that her best friend can manage to smile makes it easier for her to smile too.

Kicking her boots, she can still feel the cold breeze over water pass through her leggings and give her goosebumps.

He feels one more pulse in the grip on his hand before a gentle weight falls upon his side. He can guess her head is turned up, hair glistening with moonlight and the spots on her face matching the constellations she seeks. Francine is doing such, in fact- marveling at galaxies she was worried she'd never see again. The rich blues and purples come to her eyes and fill her up with something amazing that there's not a word for yet.

Sammy, in turn, tries to control his tensing up; still so bizarre to be so close. Still such a brief time ago no one was with him at all. He listens to the melody of the night, still trying to accept he's not just imagining it.

He wished for something for so long that he had forgotten what it was really like.

"…I wish you could see it."

Francine's eyes have not yet fallen off the sky, but now rather than the vast infinite, she was seeing the stars around his head.

It's hard to describe, from someone blind to someone seeing, how strange it is to hear people lament for you when there's nothing to regret at all. Perhaps this isn't truer for anyone else in the world than it is for Sammy Lawrence. They feel so bad it's happened to you when you just want to enjoy the day you were once afraid would never come. But she means no ill will, and he cannot feel tired of her after all she's done to try to understand and to be there. So instead of correcting, with hints of both mischief and solemnness, he offers something she has forgotten:

"I don't need to see to hear every song I've never heard, Francine."

The grin on his face widens a touch before growing smaller, and it's the first time she sees that the glint in his eyes isn't just hope for the future but joy for what's here now. So, so much.

There's a pause for a good, long time before Sammy feels her shift, curling up next to his side and holding him close. She doesn't care about the hesitation it takes for him to turn and hold her back, his grey eyes lifted up to the heavens finally there above. The fireflies still light up the twilight, lily pads float without rush nor care across the pond, and his glasses are tucked in the collar of his shirt. Everything stays.

Yes, Francine Vahl has that promise of his to keep, but she'll never forget the second one she made. Just as he helped her in one world, she'll be there in the next.


End file.
